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THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 
Copyright 1927 
By Albert Whitman & Co. 


Other 

Attractively Illustrated 
Albert Whitman 


Titles 


The Man Without a Country 

By Edward Everett Hale 
Illustrated by Milo Winter 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 

' By Robert Browning 
Illustrated by Janies McCracken 

The Dog of Flanders 

By Ouida 

Illustrated by Harvey Fuller 

The King of the Golden River 

By John Ruskin 

Illustrated by Elizabeth M. Fisher 


“A Just Right Book” 
Printed in the U. S. A. 



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Books are the direct reflection of their authors. So much 
does the personality of their creators enter into them that 
the reader often wishes to know more of the man or woman 
behind the book. Because of that almost universal desire 
I have sketched here the outlines of the life of one we 
usually hear mentioned in the quaint, prim brevity of an 
older usage either as “Miss Mulock ” or “Mrs. Craik.” It 
is strange that so little biographical record exists of one 
whose work exerted such an inflence in her time, and still is 
known and loved; but the annals of the good, like those of 
the poor, are usually short and simple. 

It is somewhat more than a century since Dinah Maria 
Mulock was born, and two of her books are still “best 
sellers ” in the stores and in constant demand at the libraries , 
“John Halifax , Gentleman ” and “The Little Lame Prince ” 
In 1826 Thomas Mulock . an eccentric religious enthus¬ 
iast of Irish descent, quarrelsome, argumentative , almost 
fanatical, was pastor of the parish church at Stoke-on-Trent, 
Staffordshire, England; and there on April 20, 1326, was 
born his first child , Dinah Maria , a quaint old-fashioned 
l 








name for the clever serious child who at ten ivas writing 
verses , notably “The Party of Cats ” and at thirteen was 
helping her mother to manage a small school, and herself 
teaching the primary classes. This was the pottery district 
of England, whose Staffordshire Pottery still keeps the name 
green, and these scenes of her childhood were later to 
become the background of Miss Mulock’s books. 

Dinah Maria was educated at Brampton House Academy 
in Newcastle-under-Lyme, and her course of studies included 
French, Latin, Italian, Greek and Irish. She drew accept¬ 
ably, and sang pleasantly. In short, she had that back¬ 
ground of the classics, and that smattering of drawing room 
accomplishments that was the mark of the young lady of 
her day. 

But the child who wrote verses at ten had grown into 
a tall slim smooth-haired girl who had already the idea of 
accomplishment, the urge toward a career. She was fifteen 
when her first work was published. This was a poem on 
the birth of the Princess Royal, and appeared in the Staf¬ 
fordshire Advertiser in January, 1841. Then, at least, if 
not before, was born her determination to be a writer, to 
make a living with her pen, and in a few years more affairs 
at home made this determination take definite form and 
shape. 

She was not a church devotee, this parson s daughter, 
but she believed in religious freedom and in the sincerity of 
religious purpose , and she became convinced that her father 
was not living up to his religious precepts and protestations 
in his dealings with his wife and family. And so, with the 
courage of a crusader and in a blaze of youthful indignation, 
she took her invalid mother and two younger brothers away, 
and establishing them in London, proposed to support them 
by her pen. It seems sufficient proof of her case against her 
2 


father and his indifference to his family, that he made no 
protest against this high-handed, if high-spirited proceed¬ 
ing, and made no effort to see them again. 

Her mother did not long survive this move, though she 
lived long enough to know, with that sure instinct of 
mothers for the futures of their children, that Dinah Maria 
would succeed. And succeed she did, for beginning with 
fiction for children her work marched steadily ahead, until 
the publication of “John Halifax 99 in 1857 put her in the 
front rank of women novelists of her day. Her literary 
reputation rests upon that classic picture of middle-class 
English life, and it has given her a place just below her 
contemporaries, Charlotte and Emily Bronte, and equal to 
Mrs. Gaskell in everything but the latter s “Cranford ." 
“John Halifax 99 has been translated into French, German, 
Italian, Greek, and Russian, and today, in spite of changed 
viewpoints and a different world, its charm still holds the 
reader. But this success was to come later. She had estab¬ 
lished her family in London, living at one time at 14 
Chatham Place, where Dante Gabriel Rosetti once lived, she 
had suffered the loss of her mother, and soon after one of 
her brothers, and she was only twenty-three when her first 
book, “The Ogilvies 99 was published. It was successful at 
once, and established her. Then there followed at intervals 
of a year “Olive 99 “The Head of the Family 99 “Alice 
Learncomb 99 and “Agatha's Husband ." Then after a lapse 
of four years came “John Halifax, Gentleman 9 in 1859 and 
with it lasting fame. Her next book, written two years later, 
“A Life for a Life 99 was not up to it, though it maintained 
a high position, but after that she wrote little of importance 
except some charming stories for children, notably “Adven¬ 
ture of a Brownie 99 written in 1872, and “The Little I.ame 
Prince 99 in 1874, both of which have run through many 


editions. There were many essays, too, poems. Two of 
these, “Philip, My King” and “Douglas, Douglas, Tender 
and True,” have been set to music, and are still remembered, 
if not often sung. 

In 1864 Miss Mulock married George Lillie Craik, a 
partner in the London house of Macmillan and Company, 
and though she was thirty-nine and her husband eleven 
years her junior it was a happy marriage. Hers was a moth¬ 
ering heart—she had always loved and protected and taken 
care of someone who was in some sense dependent upon 
her, and since she had no children of her own she adopted 
in 1872 a little girl named Dorothy, and doubtless it was 
for her that the “Adventures of a Brownie” and “The Little 
Lame Prince” were written. 

Her home was the center of a delightful group of affec¬ 
tionate friends, artists, literary men and women, musicians, 
and many others filled with intellectual interests and aspi¬ 
rations. 

She had a delightful home in Kent, “Shortlands” near 
Bromley. So eagerly did she want to help the helpless, to 
minister to the needy, that she had a set of shelves put up 
outside of the house, and had loaves of fresh bread placed 
there daily for any who might need it. But of course this 
altruistic generosity was abused and had to be discontinued. 

Mrs. Craik died rather suddenly at “Shortlands” on 
October 12,1887, and is buried at Keston, nearby in Kent. 
A picture of her made in middle life shows us a smooth¬ 
faced, smooth-haired lady with a lace scarf draped over her 
parted hair, and looking at first glance not unlike Queen 
Victoria in her decent black, with a bit of white lace and 
a cameo brooch at the throat, but the face has none of that 
haughty autocracy of Victoria, but much of kindliness, of 
humor and of sympathy. 


4 


Her work was distinguished chiefly by its tone of 
optimism and refinement, and its simplicity of diction con¬ 
tributed greatly to its success. There was passion and 
power in some of her earlier work, and there was always a 
sense of high principle and deep feeling, and sometimes a 
fine flare of imagination. Nowhere is this brighter than in 
“The Little Lame PrinceAs I have worked at these illus¬ 
trations the quaint appealing figure of the little lad who 
was cheated out of so many of the joys of normal childhood 
came to be very real and, very dear to me. I could almost 
see him playing among my pens and pencils. Together we 
have lived in that remote tower, and sailed off in the flying 
cloak and viewed the castles and towers, the heralds and 
pages and nobles that Miss Muloch’s words have described 
for us. Nomansland is a mythical country, untouched by 
time, unlocated in space, but because the quaint costumes 
of the Middle Ages have always seemed to me to be the 
true stuff of Fairy Tale, the essence of Romance, I have 
used them to clothe the people of Nomansland, and I have 
made the crown and the scepter big and heavy because 
Kingship was a burden to the little boy, yet always an hon¬ 
orable burden, that a man must stand straight under. 



5 
















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Contents 

Page 


An Artist’s Foreword.. 1 

Chapter I. 9 

Chapter II. 20 

Chapter III. 32 

Chapter IV. 45 

Chapter V. 56 

Chapter VI. 67 

Chapter VII. 83 

Chapter VIII. 95 

Chapter IX.103 

Chapter X.118 


7 














List of Full Page Illustrations 


Page 

The glorious arch of the sky.Frontispiece 

She admired her baby very much.Facing 9 

Such a procession!. 17 

He began playing with the lions. 32 

He sat gazing out of the window. 48 

He examined it curiously. 64 

She wrote “You are a king”. 80 

Truly a wonderful bird. 96 

Tired with his grandeur.112 



8 









































ES, he was the most beautiful Prince that ever 
was born. Of course, being a prince, people 
said this, but it was true besides. When he 
looked at the candle, his eyes had an expres¬ 
sion of earnest inquiry quite startling in a 
new-born baby. His nose—there was not much of it 
certainly, but what there was seemed an aquiline shape; 
his complexion was a charming, healthy purple, he was 
round and fat, straight-limbed and long—in fact, a 


9 











10 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


splendid baby, and everybody was exceedingly proud 
of him. Especially his father and mother, the King 
and Queen of Nomansland, who had waited for him 
during their happy reign of ten years—now made 
happier than ever, to themselves and their subjects, by 
the appearance of a son and heir. 

The only person who was not quite happy was the 
king’s brother, the heir-presumptive, who would have 
been king one day, had the baby not been born. But as 
his Majesty was very kind to him, and even rather sorry 
for him—insomuch that at the Queen’s request he gave 
him a dukedom almost as big as a county,—the Crown 
Prince, as he was called, tried to seem pleased also; and 
let us hope he succeeded. 

The Prince’s christening was to be a grand affair. 
According to the custom of the country, there were chosen 
for him four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, 
who each had to give him a name, and promise to do their 
utmost for him. When he came of age, he himself had 
to choose the name—and the godfather or godmother— 
that he liked best, for the rest of his days. 

Meantime, all was rejoicing. Subscriptions were 
made among the rich to give pleasure to the poor; din¬ 
ners in town-halls for the working men; tea-parties in 
the streets for their wives; and milk and bun feasts for 
the children in the schoolrooms. For Nomansland, 
though I cannot point it out in any map, or read of it in 
any history, was, I believe, much like our own or many 
another country. 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


11 


As for the Palace—which was no different from other 
palaces—it was clean “turned out of the windows,” as 
people say, with the preparations going on. The only 
quiet place in it was the room which, though the Prince 
was six weeks old, his mother the Queen had never 
quitted. Nobody said she was ill, however it would have 
been so inconvenient and as she said nothing about it 
herself, but lay pale and placid, giving no trouble to any¬ 
body, nobody thought much about her. All the world 
was absorbed in admiring the baby. 

The christening-day came at last, and it was as lovely 
as the Prince himself. All the people in the palace were 
lovely too—or thought themselves so, in the elegant new 
clothes which the queen, who thought of everybody, had 
taken care to give them, from the ladies-in-waiting down 
to the poor little kitchenmaid, who looked at herself in 
her pink cotton gown, and thought, doubtless, that there 
never was such a pretty girl as she. 

By six in the morning all the royal household had 
dressed itself in its very best and then the little Prince 
was dressed in his best—his magnificent christening- 
robe; which proceeding his Royal Highness did not like 
at all, but kicked and screamed like any common baby. 
When he had a little calmed down, they carried him to be 
looked at by the Queen his mother, who, though her royal 
robes had been brought and laid upon the bed, was, as 
everybody well knew, quite unable to rise and put 
them on. 

She admired her baby very much; kissed and blessed 




12 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


him, and lay looking at him, as she did for hours some¬ 
times, when he was placed beside her fast asleep; then 
she gave him up with a gentle smile, and saying “she 
hoped he would be very good, that it would be a very nice 
christening, and all the guests would enjoy themselves,” 
turned peacefully over on her bed, saying nothing more 
to anybody. She was a very uncomplaining person—the 
Queen, and her name was Dolorez. 

Everything went on exactly as if she had been pres¬ 
ent. All, even the King himself, had grown used to her 
absence, for she was not strong, and for years had not 
joined in any gaieties. She always did her royal duties, 
but as to pleasures, they could go on quite well without 
her, or it seemed so. The company arrived, great and 
notable persons in this and neighboring countries; also 
the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who 
had been chosen with care, as the people who would be 
most useful to his Royal Highness, should he ever want 
friends, which did not seem likely. What such want 
could possibly happen to the heir of the powerful mon¬ 
arch of Nomansland? 

They came, walking two and two, with their coronets 
on their heads—being dukes and duchesses, princes and 
princesses, or the like they all kissed the child, and pro¬ 
nounced the name which each had given him. Then the 
four-and-twenty names were shouted out with great 
energy by six heralds, one after the other, and after¬ 
wards written down, to be preserved in the state records, 
in readiness for the next time they were wanted which 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


13 



would be either on his Royal Highness’s coronation or his 
funeral. Soon the ceremony was over, and everybody 
satisfied; except, perhaps, the little Prince himself, who 
moaned faintly under his christening robes, which nearly 
smothered him. 

In truth, though very few knew, the Prince in coming 
to the chapel had met with a slight disaster. His nurse— 
not his ordinary one, but the state nursemaid, an elegant 
and fashionable young lady of rank, whose duty it was to 
carry him to and from the chapel, had been so occupied 
in arranging her train with one hand, while she held the 
baby with the other, that she stumbled and let him fall, 
just at the foot of the marble staircase. To be sure, she 
contrived to pick him up again the next minute, and the 
accident was so slight it seemed hardly worth speaking 
of. Consequently, nobody did speak of it. The baby had 
turned deadly pale but did not cry, so no person a step 





14 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


or two behind could discover anything wrong; after¬ 
wards, even if he had moaned, the silver trumpets were 
loud enough to drown his voice. 

It would have been a pity to let anything trouble such 
a day of felicity. 

So, after a minute’s pause, the procession had moved 
on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; 
pages in crimson and gold and a troop of little girls in 
dazzling white, carrying baskets of flowers, which they 
strewed all the way before the nurse and child,—finally 
the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, as 
proud as possible, and so splendid to look at that they 
would have quite extinguished their small godson— 
merely a heap of lace and muslin with a baby-face inside 
—had it not been for a canopy of white satin and ostrich 
feathers, which was held over him wherever he was 
carried. 

Thus, with the sun shining on them through the 
painted windows, they stood; the King and his train on 
one side, the Prince and his attendants on the other, as 
pretty a sight as ever was seen out of fairyland. 

“It’s just like fairyland,” whispered the eldest little 
girl to the next eldest, as she shook the last rose out of 
her basket; “and I think the only thing the Prince wants 
now is a fairy godmother.” 

“Does he?” said a shrill but soft and not unpleasant 
voice behind and there was seen among the group of chil¬ 
dren somebody—not a child—yet no bigger than a child: 
somebody whom nobody had seen before, and who cer- 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


15 


tainly had not been invited, for she had no christening 
clothes on. 

She was a little old woman dressed all in grey: grey 
gown, grey hooded cloak, of a material excessively fine, 
and a tint that seemed perpetually changing, like the 
grey of an evening sky. Her hair was grey and her eyes 
also; even her complexion had a soft grey shadow over it. 
But there was nothing unpleasantly old about her, and 
her smile was as sweet and childlike as the Prince’s own, 
which stole over his pale little face the instant she came 
near enough to touch him. 

“Take care. Don’t let the baby fall again.” 

The grand young lady nurse started, flushing angrily. 

“Who spoke to me? How did anybody know?—I mean, 
what business has anybody—?” Then, frightened, but 
still speaking in a much sharper tone than I hope young 
ladies of rank are in the habit of speaking—“Old woman, 
you will be kind enough not to say ‘the baby,’ but ‘the 
Prince.’ Keep away; his Royal Highness is just going to 
sleep.” 

“Nevertheless, I must kiss him. I am his godmother.” 

“You!” cried the elegant lady nurse. 

“You! !” repeated all the gentlemen and ladies-in¬ 
waiting. 

“You! ! !” echoed the heralds and pages—and they 
began to blow the silver trumpets, in order to stop all 
further conversation. 

The Prince’s procession formed itself for returning— 
the King and his train having already moved off towards 




16 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


the palace—but, on the topmost step of the marble stairs, 
stood, right in front of all, the little old woman clothed 
in grey. 

She stretched herself on tiptoe by the help of her stick, 
and gave the little Prince three kisses. 

“This is intolerable,” cried the young lady nurse, wip¬ 
ing the kisses off rapidly with her lace handkerchief. 
“Such an insult to his Royal Highness. Take yourself 
out of the way, old woman, or the King shall be informed 
immediately.” 

“The King knows nothing of me, more’s the pity,” re¬ 
plied the old woman with an indifferent air, as if she 
thought the loss was more on his Majesty’s side than hers. 
“My friend in the palace is the King’s wife.” 

“Kings’ wives are called queens,” said the lady nurse, 
with a contemptuous air. 

“You are right,” replied the old woman, “Neverthe¬ 
less, I know her Majesty well, and I love her and her 
child. And—since you dropped him on the marble 
stairs (this she said in a mysterious whisper, which made 
the young lady tremble in spite of her anger)—I choose 
to take him for my own. I am his godmother, ready to 
help him whenever he wants me.” 

“You help him!” cried all the group, breaking into 
shouts of laughter, to which the little old woman paid not 
the slightest attention. Her soft grey eyes were fixed on 
the Prince, who seemed to answer to the look, smiling 
again and again in causeless, aimless fashion, as babies 
do smile. 










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THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


17 


“His Majesty must hear of this,” said a gentleman- 
in-waiting. 

“His Majesty will hear quite enough news in a min¬ 
ute or two,” said the old woman sadly. And again 
stretching up to the little Prince, she kissed him on the 
forehead solemnly. 

“Be called by a new name which nobody has ever 
thought of. Be Prince Dolor, in memory of your mother 
Dolorez.” 

“In memory of!” Everybody started at the ominous 
phrase, and also at a most terrible breach of etiquette 
which the old woman had committed. In Nomansland, 
neither the king nor the queen were supposed to have any 
Christian name at all. They dropped it on their corona¬ 
tion-day, and it was never mentioned again till it was 
engraved on their coffins when they died. 

“Old woman, you are exceedingly ill-bred,” cried the 
eldest lady-in-waiting, much horrified. “How you could 
know the fact passes my comprehension. But even if 
you did not know it, how dared you presume to hint that 
her most gracious Majesty is called Dolorez?” 

“Was called Dolorez,” said the old woman with a 
tender solemnity. 

The first gentleman, called the Gold-stick-in-waiting, 
raised it to strike her, and all the rest stretched out their 
hands to seize her but the grey mantle melted from be¬ 
tween their fingers like air; and, before anybody had 
time to do anything more, there came a heavy, muffled, 
startling sound. 




18 THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE ____ _ _ 

The great bell of the palace—the bell which was only 
heard on the death of some of the Royal family, and for 
as many times as he or she was years old—began to toll. 
They listened, mute and horror-stricken. Some one 
counted: One—two—three—four—up to nine and 
twenty—just the Queen's age. 

It was, indeed, the Queen. Her Majesty was dead! 
In the midst of the festivities she had slipped away, out 
of her new happiness and her old sufferings, neither few 
nor small. Sending away her women to see the sight— 
at least, they said afterwards, in excuse, that she had 
done so, and it was very like her to do it—she had turned 
with her face to the window, whence one could just see 
the tops of the distant mountains—the Beautiful Moun¬ 
tains, as they were called—where she was born. So gaz¬ 
ing, she had quietly died. 

When the little Prince was carried back to his 
mother's room, there was no mother to kiss him. And, 
though he did not know it, there would be for him no 
mother's kiss any more. 

As for his Godmother—the little old woman in grey 
who called herself so—whether she melted into air, like 
her gown when they touched it, or whether she flew out 
of the chapel window, or slipped through the doorway 
among the bewildered crowd, nobody knew—nobody 
ever thought about her. 

Only the nurse, the ordinary homely one, coming out 
of the Prince's nursery in the middle of the night in 
search of a cordial to quiet his continual moans, saw, sit- 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


19 



ting in the doorway, something which she would have 
thought a mere shadow, had she not seen shining out of 
it two eyes, grey and soft and sweet. She put her hand 
before her own, screaming loudly. When she took them 
away, the old woman was gone. 





to motherless children, whether princes or peasants. He 
had a magnificent nursery, and a regular suite of attend¬ 
ants, and was treated with the greatest respect and state. 
Nobody was allowed to talk to him in silly baby language, 
or dandle him, or above all to kiss him, though, perhaps, 
20 








THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


21 


some people did it surreptitiously, for he was such a 
sweet baby that it was difficult to help it. 

It could not be said that the Prince missed his mother; 
children of his age cannot do that; but somehow after she 
died everything seemed to go wrong with him. From a 
beautiful baby he became sickly and pale, seeming to 
have almost ceased growing, especially in his legs, which 
had been so fat and strong. But after the day of his 
christening they withered and shrank; he no longer 
kicked them out either in passion or play, and when, as 
he got to be nearly a year old, his nurse tried to make him 
stand upon them, he only tumbled down. 

This happened so many times that at last people be¬ 
gan to talk about it. A prince, and not able to stand on 
his own legs! What a dreadful thing! what a misfortune 
for the country! 

Rather a misfortune to him also, poor little boy! but 
nobody seemed to think of that. And when, after a while, 
his health revived, and the old bright look came back to 
his sweet little face, and his body grew larger and 
stronger, though still his legs remained the same, people 
continued to speak of him in whispers, and with grave 
shakes of the head. Everybody knew, though nobody said 
it, that something, impossible to guess what, was not 
quite right with the poor little Prince. 

Of course, nobody hinted this to the King his father: 
it does not do to tell great people anything unpleasant. 
And besides, his Majesty took very little notice of his son, 




22 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


or of his other affairs, beyond the necessary duties of his 
kingdom. People had said he would not miss the Queen 
at all, she having been so long an invalid: but he did. 
After her death he never was quite the same. He estab¬ 
lished himself in her empty rooms, the only rooms in the 
palace whence one could see the Beautiful Mountains, 
and was often observed looking at them as if he thought 
she had flown away thither, and that his longing could 
bring her back again. And by a curious coincidence, 
which nobody dared to inquire into, he desired 
that the Prince might be called, not by any of the four- 
and-twenty grand names given him by his godfathers 
and godmothers, but by the identical name mentioned 
by the little old woman in grey,—Dolor, after his 
mother Dolorez. 

Once a week, according to established state custom, 
the Prince dressed in his very best, was brought to the 
King his father for half-an-hour, but his Majesty was 
generally too ill and too melancholy to pay much heed to 
the child. 

Only once, when he and the Crown Prince, who was 
exceedingly attentive to his royal brother, were sitting 
together, with Prince Dolor playing in a corner of the 
room, dragging himself about with his arms rather than 
his legs, and sometimes trying feebly to crawl from one 
chair to another, it seemed to strike the father that all 
was not right with his son. 

“How old is his Royal Highness ?” said he suddenly 
to the nurse. 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


23 


“Two years, three months, and five days, please your 
Majesty.” 

“It does not please me,” said the King with a sigh. 
“He ought to be far more forward than he is now, ought 
he not, brother? You, who have so many children, must 
know. Is there not something wrong about him?” 

“Oh, no,” said the Crown Prince, exchanging mean¬ 
ing looks with the nurse, who did not understand at all, 
but stood frightened and trembling with the tears in her 
eyes. “Nothing to make your Majesty at all uneasy. No 
doubt his Royal Highness will outgrow it in time.” 

“Outgrow—what?” 

“A slight delicacy—ahem!—in the spine; something 
inherited, perhaps, from his dear mother.” 

“Ah, she was always delicate; but she was the sweet¬ 
est woman that ever lived. Come here, my little son.” 

And as the Prince turned round upon his father a 
small, sweet, grave face—so like his mother’s—his Maj¬ 
esty the King smiled and held out his arms. But when 
the boy came to him, not running like a boy, but wrig¬ 
gling awkwardly along the floor, the royal countenance 
clouded over. 

“I ought to have been told of this. It is terrible—ter¬ 
rible ! And for a prince, too! Send for all the doctors 
in my kingdom immediately.” 

They came, and each gave different opinion, and 
ordered a different mode of treatment. The only thing 
they agreed in was what had been pretty well known be¬ 
fore : that the prince must have been hurt when he was an 





24 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


infant—let fall, perhaps, so as to injure his spine and 
lower limbs. Did nobody remember? 

No, nobody. Indignantly, all the nurses denied that 
any such accident had happened, was possible to have 
happened, until the faithful country nurse recollected 
that it really had happened, on the day of the christen¬ 
ing. For which unluckily good memory all the others 
scolded her so severely that she had no peace of her life, 
and soon after, by the influence of the young lady nurse 
who had carried the baby that fatal day, and who was a 
sort of connection of the Crown Prince, being his wife’s 
second cousin once removed, the poor woman was pen¬ 
sioned off, and sent to the Beautiful Mountains, from 
whence she came, with orders to remain there for the 
rest of her days. 

But of all this the King knew nothing, for, indeed, 
after the first shock of finding out that his son could not 
walk, and seemed never likely to walk, he interfered very 
little concerning him. The whole thing was too painful, 
and his Majesty had never liked painful things. Some¬ 
times he inquired after Prince Dolor, and they told him 
his Royal Highness was going on as well as could be 
expected, which really was the case. For after worrying 
the poor child and perplexing themselves with one remedy 
after another, the Crown Prince, not wishing to offend 
any of the differing doctors, had proposed leaving him 
to nature and nature, the safest doctor of all, had come 
to his help, and done her best. He could not walk, it is 
true; his limbs were mere useless additions to his body; 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


25 


but the body itself was strong and sound. And his face 
was the same as ever—just his mother’s face, one of the 
sweetest in the world! 

Even the King, indifferent as he was, sometimes 
looked at the little fellow with sad tenderness, noticing 
how cleverly he learned to crawl, and swing himself 
about by his arms, so that in his own awkward way he 
was as active in motion as most children of his age. 

“Poor little man! he does his best, and he is not 
unhappy; not half so unhappy as I, brother,” addressing 
the Crown Prince, who was more constant than ever in 
his attendance upon the sick monarch. “If anything 
should befall me, I have appointed you as Regent. In 
case of my death, you will take care of my poor little 
boy?” 

“Certainly, certainly; but do not let us imagine any 
such misfortune. I assure your Majesty—everybody will 
assure you—that it is not in the least likely.” 

He knew, however, and everybody knew, that it was 
likely, and soon after it actually did happen. The King 
died, as suddenly and quietly as the Queen had done— 
indeed, in her very room and bed; and Prince Dolor was 
left without either father or mother—as sad a thing as 
could happen, even to a Prince. 

He was more than that now, though. He was a king. 
In Nomansland, as in other countries, the people were 
struck with grief one day and revived the next. “The 
king is dead—long live the king!” was the cry that rang 
through the nation, and almost before his late Majesty 





26 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


had been laid beside the queen in their splendid mauso¬ 
leum, crowds came thronging from all parts of the royal 
palace, eager to see the new monarch. 

They did see him—the Prince Regent took care they 
should—sitting on the floor of the council-chamber, suck¬ 
ing his thumb! And when one of the gentlemen-in- 
waiting lifted him up and carried him—fancy, carrying 
a king!—to the chair of state, and put the crown on his 
head, he shook it off again, it was so heavy and uncom¬ 
fortable. Sliding down to the foot of the throne, he began 
playing with the golden lions that supported it, stroking 
their paws and putting his tiny fingers into their eyes, 
and laughing—laughing as if he had at last found some¬ 
thing to amuse him. 

“There's a fine king for you!" said the first lord-in¬ 
waiting, a friend of the Prince Regent's (the Crown 
Prince that used to be, who, in deepest mourning, stood 
silently beside the throne of his young nephew. He was 
a handsome man, very grand and clever looking). “What 
a king! who can never stand to receive his subjects, never 
walk in processions, who, to the last day of his life, will 
have to be carried about like a baby. Very unfortunate!" 

“Exceedingly unfortunate," repeated the second lord. 
“It is always bad for a nation when its king is a child; 
but such a child—a permanent cripple, if not worse." 

“Let us hope not worse," said the first lord in a very 
hopeless tone, and looking towards the Regent, who stood 
erect and pretended to hear nothing. “I have heard that 
these sort of children with very large heads and great 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


27 


broad foreheads and staring eyes, are-well, well, let 

us hope for the best and be prepared for the worst. In 
the meantime-” 

“I swear,” said the Crown Prince, coming forward 
and kissing the hilt of his sword—“I swear to perform 
my duties as regent, to take all care of his Royal High¬ 
ness—his Majesty, I mean,” with a grand bow to the 
little child, who laughed innocently back again. “And I 
will do my humble best to govern the country. Still, if 
the country has the slightest objection-” 

But the Crown Prince being generalissimo, and hav¬ 
ing the whole army at his beck and call, so that he could 
have begun a civil war in no time; the country had, of 
course, not the slightest objection. 

So the king and queen slept together in peace, and 
Prince Dolor reigned over the land—that is, his uncle 
did; and everybody said what a fortunate thing it was 
for the poor little Prince to have such a clever uncle to 
take care of him. All things went on as usual; indeed, 
after the Regent had brought his wife and her seven sons, 
and established them in the palace, rather better than 
usual. For they gave such splendid entertainments and 
made the capital so lively, that trade revived, and the 
country was said to be more flourishing than it had been 
for a century. 

Whenever the Regent and his sons appeared, they 
were received with shouts—“Long live the Crown 
Prince!” “Long live the Royal family!” And, in truth, 
they were very fine children, the whole seven of them, 






28 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 



and made a great show when they rode out together on 
seven beautiful horses, one height above another, down 
to the youngest, on his tiny black pony, no bigger than 
a large dog. 

As for the other child, his Royal Highness Prince 
Dolor—for somehow people soon ceased to call him his 
Majesty, which seemed such a ridiculous title for a poor 
little fellow, a helpless cripple, with only head and trunk, 
and no legs to speak of—he was seen very seldom by 
anybody. 

Sometimes, people daring enough to peer over the 
high wall of the palace garden, noticed there, carried in 
a footman’s arms, or drawn in a chair, or left to play on 
the grass, often with nobody to mind him, a pretty little 
boy, with a bright intelligent face, and large melancholy 









THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


29 


eyes—no, not exactly melancholy, for they were his 
mother’s, and she was by no means sad-minded, but 
thoughtful and dreamy. They rather perplexed people, 
those childish eyes; they were so exceedingly innocent 
and yet so penetrating. If anybody did a wrong thing, 
told a lie for instance, they would turn round with such 
a grave silent surprise—the child never talked much— 
that every naughty person in the palace was rather 
afraid of Prince Dolor. 

He could not help it, and perhaps he did not even 
know it, being no better a child than many other children, 
but there was something about him that made bad 
people sorry, and grumbling people ashamed of them¬ 
selves, and ill-natured people gentle and kind. I suppose, 
because they were touched to see a poor little fellow who 
did not in the least know what had befallen him, or what 
lay before him, living his baby life as happy as the day 
was long. Thus, whether or not he was good himself, 
the sight of him and his affliction made other people good, 
and, above all, made everybody love him. So much so, 
that his uncle the Regent began to feel a little uncom¬ 
fortable. 

Now, I have nothing to say against uncles in general. 
They are usually very excellent people, and very con¬ 
venient to little boys and girls. 

Even the “cruel uncle” of “The Babes in the Wood” 
I believe to be quite an exceptional character. And this 
“cruel uncle” of whom I am telling was, I hope, an excep¬ 
tion too. 





30 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


He did not mean to be cruel. If anybody had called 
him so, he would have resented it extremely: he would 
have said that what he did was done entirely for the 
good of the country. But he was a man who had been 
always accustomed to consider himself first and foremost, 
believing that whatever he wanted was sure to be right, 
and, therefore, he ought to have it. So he tried to get 
it, and got it too, as people like him very often do. 
Whether they enjoy it when they have it, is another 
question. 

Therefore, he went one day to the council-chamber, 
determined on making a speech and informing the minis¬ 
ters and the country at large that the young king was 
failing in health, and that it would be advisable to send 
him for a time to the Beautiful Mountains. Whether he 
really meant to do this; or whether it occurred to him 
afterwards that there would be an easier way of attain¬ 
ing his great desire, the crown of Nomansland, is a point 
which I cannot decide. 

But soon after, when he had obtained an order in 
council to send the King away—which was done in great 
state, with a guard of honour composed of two whole 
regiments of soldiers—the nation learnt, without much 
surprise, that the poor little Prince—nobody ever called 
him king now—had gone on a much longer journey than 
to the Beautiful Mountains. 

He had fallen ill on the road and died within a few 
hours, at least, so declared the physician in attendance, 
and the nurse who had been sent to take care of him. 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


31 


They brought his coffin back in great state, and buried 
it in the mausoleum with his parents. 

So Prince Dolor was seen no more. The country went 
into deep mourning for him, and then forgot him, and 
his uncle reigned in his stead. That illustrious personage 
accepted his crown with great decorum, and wore it with 
great dignity, to the last. But whether he enjoyed it or 
not, there is no evidence to show. 






what of the little lame prince, whom every¬ 
body seemed so easily to have forgotten? 

Not everybody. There were a few kind souls, 
mothers of families, who had heard his sad story, and 
some servants about the palace, who had been familiar 
with his sweet ways—these many a time sighed and said, 
“Poor Prince Dolor!” Or, looking at the Beautiful Moun¬ 
tains, which were visible all over Nomansland, though 

32 













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THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


33 


few people ever visited them, “Well, perhaps his Royal 
Highness is better where he is than even there.” 

They did not know—indeed, hardly anybody did know 
—that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea, 
lay a tract of country, barren, level, bare, except for short 
stunted grass, and here and there a patch of tiny flowers. 
Not a bush—not a tree—not a resting-place for bird or 
beast was in that dreary plain. In summer, the sunshine 
fell upon it hour after hour with a blinding glare; in 
winter, the winds and rains swept over it unhindered, 
and the snow came down, steadily, noiselessly, covering 
it from end to end in one great white sheet, which lay for 
days and weeks unmarked by a single footprint. 

Not a pleasant place to live in—and nobody did live 
there, apparently. The only sign that human creatures 
had ever been near the spot, was one large round tower 
which rose up in the center of the plain, and might be 
seen all over it—if there had been anybody to see, which 
there never was. Rose, right up out of the ground, as if 
it had grown of itself, like a mushroom. But it was not 
at all mushroom-like; on the contrary, it was very solidly 
built. In form, it resembled the Irish round towers, which 
have puzzled people for so long, nobody being able to find 
out when, or by whom, or for what purpose they were 
made; seemingly for no use at all, like this tower. It was 
circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor 
windows, until near the top, when you could perceive 
some slits in the wall through which one might possibly 
creep in or look out. Its height was nearly a hundred feet 





34 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


high, and it had a battlemented parapet, showing sharp 
against the sky. 

As the plain was quite desolate—almost like a desert, 
only without sand, and led to nowhere except the still 
more desolate sea-coast—nobody ever crossed it. What¬ 
ever mystery there was about the tower, it and the sky 
and the plain kept their secret to themselves. 

It was a very great secret indeed—a state secret— 
which none but so clever a man as the present king of 
Nomansland would ever have thought of. How he carried 
it out, undiscovered, I cannot tell. People said, long after¬ 
wards, that it was by means of a gang of condemned 
criminals, who were set to work, and executed imme¬ 
diately after they had done, so that nobody knew any¬ 
thing, or in the least suspected the real fact. 

And what was the fact? Why, that this tower, which 
seemed a mere mass of masonry, utterly forsaken and 
uninhabited, was not so at all. Within twenty feet of 
the top, some ingenious architect had planned a perfect 
little house, divided into four rooms—as by drawing a 
cross within a circle you will see might easily be done. 
By making skylights, and a few slits in the walls for 
windows, and raising a peaked roof which was hidden 
by the parapet, here was a dwelling complete eighty feet 
from the ground, and as inaccessible as a rook’s nest on 
the top of a tree. 

A charming place to live in! if you once got up there, 
and never wanted to come down again. 

Inside—though nobody could have looked inside 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


35 


except a bird, and hardly even a bird flew past that lonely 
tower—inside it was furnished with all the comfort and 
elegance imaginable; with lots of books and toys, and 
everything that the heart of a child could desire. For its 
only inhabitant, except a nurse of course, was a poor little 
solitary child. 

One winter night, when all the plain was white with 
moonlight, there was seen crossing it a great tall black 
horse, ridden by a man also big and equally black, carry¬ 
ing before him on the saddle a woman and a child. The 
woman—she had a sad, fierce look, and no wonder, for 
she was a criminal under sentence of death, but her sen¬ 
tence had been changed to almost as severe a punishment. 
She was to inhabit the lonely tower with the child, and 
was allowed to live as long as the child lived—no longer. 
This, in order that she might take the utmost care of 
him; for those who put him there were equally afraid 
of his dying and of his living. And yet he was only a 
little gentle boy, with a sweet sleepy smile—he had been 
very tired with his long journey—and clinging arms, 
which held tight to the man’s neck, for he was rather 
frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly 
at him. And he was very helpless, with his poor small 
shriveled legs, which could neither stand nor run away 
—for the little forlorn boy was Prince Dolor. 

He had not been dead at all—or buried either. His 
grand funeral had been a mere pretence: a wax figure 
having been put in his place, while he himself was spirited 
away under charge of these two, the condemned woman 



36 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 



and the black man. The latter was deaf and dumb, so 
could neither tell nor repeat anything. 

When they reached the foot of the tower, there was 
light enough to see a huge chain dangling from the para¬ 
pet, but dangling only half way. The deaf-mute took 
from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged in pieces 
like a puzzle, fitted it together and lifted it up to meet 
the chain. Then he mounted to the top of the tower, and 
slung from it a sort of chair, in which the woman and the 
child placed themselves and were drawn up, never to 
come down again as long as they lived. Leaving them 
there, the man descended the ladder, took it to pieces 
again and packed it in his pack, mounted the horse, and 
disappeared across the plain. 

Every month they used to watch for him, appearing 
like a speck in the distance. He fastened his horse to the 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


37 


foot of the tower and climbed it, as before, laden with 
provisions and many other things. He always saw the 
Prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and 
well, and then went away until the following month. 

While his first childhood lasted, Prince Dolor was 
happy enough. He had every luxury that even a prince 
could need, and the one thing wanting—love, never hav¬ 
ing known, he did not miss. His nurse was very kind to 
him, though she was a wicked woman. But either she 
had not been quite so wicked as people said, or she grew 
better through being shut up continually with a little 
innocent child, who was dependent upon her for every 
comfort and pleasure of his life. 

It was not an unhappy life. There was nobody to 
tease or ill-use him, and he was never ill. He played about 
from room to room—there were four rooms—parlour, 
kitchen, his nurse’s bed-room, and his own; learnt to 
crawl like a fly, and to jump like a frog, and to run about 
on all-fours almost as fast as a puppy. In fact, he was 
very much like a puppy or a kitten, as thoughtless and as 
merry—scarcely ever cross, though sometimes a little 
weary. As he grew older, he occasionally liked to be quiet 
for awhile, and then he would sit at the slits of windows, 
which were, however, much bigger than they looked from 
the bottom of the tower,—and watch the sky above and 
the ground below, with the storms sweeping over and the 
Sunshine coming and going, and the shadows of the clouds 
running races across the blank plain. 

By-and-by he began to learn lessons—not that his 




38 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 



nurse had been ordered to teach him, but she did it partly 
to amuse herself. She was not a stupid woman, and 
Prince Dolor was by no means a stupid boy; so they got 
on very well, and his continual entreaty “What can I do? 
what can you find me to do?” was stopped; at least for 
an hour or two in the day. 

It was a dull life, but he had never known any other; 
anyhow, he remembered no other; and he did not pity 
himself at all. Not for a long time, till he grew to be 
quite a big little boy, and could read easily. Then he 
suddenly took to books, which the deaf-mute brought him 
from time to time—books which, not being acquainted 
with the literature of Nomansland, I cannot describe, but 
no doubt they were very interesting; and they informed 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


39 


him of everything in the outside world, and filled him 
with an intense longing to see it. 

From this time a change came over the boy. He began 
to look sad and thin, and to shut himself up for hours 
without speaking. For his nurse hardly spoke, and what¬ 
ever questions he asked beyond their ordinary daily life 
she never answered. She had, indeed, been forbidden, on 
pain of death, to tell him anything about himself, who 
he was, or what he might have been. He knew he was 
Prince Dolor, because she always addressed him as “my 
prince,” and “your royal highness,” but what a prince 
was he had not the least idea. He had no idea of any 
thing in the world, except what he found in his books. 

He sat one day surrounded by them, having built 
them up around him like a little castle wall. He had been 
reading them half the day, but feeling all the while that 
to read about things which you never can see is like hear¬ 
ing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving. For 
almost the first time in his life he grew melancholy: his 
hands fell on his lap; he sat gazing out of the window-slit 
upon the view outside—the view he had looked at every 
day of his life, and might look at for endless days more. 

Not a very cheerful view—just plain and sky—but he 
liked it. He used to think, if he could only fly out of that 
window, up to the sky or down to the plain, how nice it 
would be! Perhaps when he died—his nurse had told him 
once in anger that he would never leave the tower till he 
died—he might be able to do this. Not that he understood 
much what dying meant, but it must be a change, and 




40 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


any change seemed to him a blessing. 

“And I wish I had somebody to tell me all about it; 
about that and many other things; somebody that would 
be fond of me, like my poor white kitten.” 

Here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy’s one 
friend, the one interest of his life, had been a little white 
kitten, which the deaf-mute, kindly smiling, once took 
out of his pocket and gave him—the only living creature 
Prince Dolor had ever seen. For four weeks it was his 
constant plaything and companion, till one moonlight 
night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on to the 
parapet of the tower, dropped over and disappeared. It 
was not killed, he hoped, for cats have nine lives; indeed, 
he almost fancied he saw it pick itself up and scamper 
away, but he never caught sight of it more. 

“Yes, I wish I had something better than a kitten—a 
person, a real live person, who would be fond of me and 
kind to me. Oh, I want somebody—dreadfully, dread¬ 
fully!” 

As he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight tap- 
tap-tap, as of a stick or a cane, and twisting himself 
round, he saw—what do you think he saw? 

Nothing either frightening or ugly, but still exceed¬ 
ingly curious. A little woman, no bigger than he might 
himself have been, had his legs grown like those of other 
children, but she was not a child—she was an old woman. 
Her hair was grey, and her dress was grey, and there 
was a grey shadow over her wherever she moved. But 
she had the sweetest smile, the prettiest hands, and when 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


41 


she spoke it was in the softest voice imaginable. 

“My dear little boy”—and dropping her cane, the only 
bright and rich thing about her, she laid those two tiny 
hands on his shoulders—“my own little boy, I could not 
come to you until you had said you wanted me, but now 
you do want me, here I am.” 

“And you are very welcome, madam,” replied the 
Prince, trying to speak politely, as princes always did in 
books; “and I am exceedingly obliged to you. May I ask 
who you are? Perhaps my mother?” For he knew that 
little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally 
wondered what had become of his own. 

“No,” said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad smile, 
putting back the hair from his forehead, and looking 
right into his eyes—“No, I am not your mother, though 
she was a dear friend of mine and you are as like her as 
ever you can be.” 

“Will you tell her to come and see me then?” 

“She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about you. 
And she loves you very much—and so do I; and I want to 
help you all I can, my poor little boy.” 

“Why do you call me poor?” asked Prince Dolor in 
surprise. 

The little old woman glanced down on his legs and 
feet, which he did not know were different from those of 
other children, and then at his sweet, bright face, which, 
though he knew not that either, was exceedingly different 
from many children’s faces, which are often so fretful, 
cross, sullen. Looking at him, instead of sighing, she 





42 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


smiled. “I beg your pardon, my prince,” said she. 

“Yes, I am a prince, and my name is Dolor; will you 
tell me yours, madam?” 

The little old woman laughed like a chime of silver 
bells. 

“I have not got a name—or rather, I have so many 
names that I don’t know which to choose. However, it 
was I who gave you yours, and you will belong to me all 
your days. I am your godmother.” 

“Hurrah,” cried the little prince; “I am glad I belong 
to you, for I like you very much. Will you come and play 
with me?” 

So they sat down together, and played. By-and-by 
they began to talk. 

“Are you very dull here?” asked the little old woman. 

“Not particularly, thank you, godtnother. I have 
plenty to eat and drink, and my lessons to do, and my 
books to read—lots of books.” 

“And you want nothing?” 

“Nothing. Yes—perhaps—If you please, godmother, 
could you bring me just one more thing?” 

“What sort of thing?” 

“A little boy to play with.” 

The old woman looked very sad. “Just the thing, alas, 
which I cannot give you. My child, I cannot alter your 
lot in any way, but I can help you to bear it.” 

“Thank you. But why do you talk of bearing it? I 
have nothing to bear.” 

“My poor little man!” said the old woman in the very 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


43 


tenderest tones of her tender voice. “Kiss me!” 

“What is kissing?” asked the wondering child. 

His godmother took him in her arms and embraced 
him many times. By-and-by he kissed her back again— 
at first awkwardly and shyly, then with all the strength 
of his warm little heart. 

“You are better to cuddle than even my white kitten, 
I think. Promise me that you will never go away.” 

“I must; but I will leave a present behind me—some¬ 
thing as good as myself to amuse you—something that 
will take you wherever you want to go, and show you all 
that you wish to see.” 

“What is it?” 

“A travelling-cloak.” 

The Prince’s countenance fell. “I don’t want a cloak, 
for I never go out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the 
roof, and carries me round by the parapet; but that is 
all. I can’t walk, you know, as she does.” 

“The more reason why you should ride; and besides, 
this travelling-cloak-” 

“Hush!—she’s coming.” 

There sounded outside the room door a heavy step 
and a grumpy voice, and a rattle of plates and dishes. 

“It’s my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but I 
don’t want dinner at all—I only want you. Will her com¬ 
ing drive you away, godmother?” 

“Perhaps; but only for a little. Never mind; all the 
bolts and bars in the world couldn’t keep me out. I’d fly 
in at the window, or down through the chimney. Only 






44 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


wish for me, and I come.” 

“Thank you,” said Prince Dolor, but almost in a 
whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen 
next. His nurse and his godmother—what would they 
say to one another? how would they look at one another? 
—two such different faces: one, harsh-lined, sullen, cross, 
and sad; the other, sweet and bright and calm as a sum¬ 
mer evening before the dark begins. 

When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut his 
eyes, trembling all over: opening them again, he saw he 
need fear nothing; his lovely old godmother had melted 
away just like the rainbow out of the sky, as he had 
watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in 
the room. 

“What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in,” 
said she sharply. “Such a heap of untidy books; and 
what’s this rubbish?” kicking a little bundle that lay 
beside them. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing—give it me!” cried the prince, 
and darting after it, he hid it under his pinafore, and 
then pushed it quickly into his pocket. Rubbish, as it was, 
it was left in the place where she had sat, and might be 
something belonging to her—his dear, kind godmother, 
whom already he loved with all his lonely, tender pas¬ 
sionate heart. 

It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful 
travelling-cloak. 





ND what of the traveling-cloak? What sort of 
cloak was it, and what good did it do the Prince? 
Stay, and Pll tell you all about it. 

Outside it was the commonest-looking bundle imag¬ 
inable—shabby and small; and the instant Prince Dolor 
touched it, it grew smaller still, dwindling down till he 
could put it in his trousers pocket, like a handkerchief 
rolled up into a ball. He did this at once, for fear his 
nurse should see it, and kept it there all day—all night, 
too. Till after his next morning’s lessons he had no 
opportunity of examining his treasure. 


45 






46 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


When he did, it seemed no treasure at all; but a mere 
piece of cloth—circular in form, dark green in colour, 
that is, if it had any colour at all, being so worn and 
shabby, though not dirty. It had a split cut to the centre, 
forming a round hole for the neck—and that was all its 
shape; the shape, in fact, of those cloaks which in South 
America are called 'ponchos —very simple, but most 
graceful and convenient. 

Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite 
of his disappointment he examined it curiously; spread 
it out on the floor, then arranged it on his shoulders. It 
felt very warm and comfortable; but it was so exceed¬ 
ingly shabby—the only shabby thing that the Prince had 
ever seen in his life. 

“And what use will it be to me?” said he sadly. “I 
have no need of outdoor clothes, as I never go out. Why 
was this given me, I wonder? and what in the world am I 
to do with it? She must be a rather funny person, this 
dear godmother of mine.” 

Nevertheless, because she was his godmother, and 
had given him the cloak, he folded it carefully and put 
it away, poor and shabby as it was, hiding it in a safe 
corner of his toy-cupboard, which his nurse never med¬ 
dled with. He did not want her to find it, or to laugh 
at it, or at his godmother—as he felt sure she would, if 
she knew all. 

There it lay, and by-and-by he forgot all about it; 
nay, I am sorry to say, that, being but a child, and not 
seeing her again, he almost forgot his sweet old god- 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


47 


mother, or thought of her only as he did of the angels 
or fairies that he read of in his books, and of her visit 
as if it had been a mere dream of the night. 

There were times, certainly, when he recalled her; 
of early mornings like that morning when she appeared 
beside him, and late evenings, when the grey twilight 
reminded him of the colour of her hair and her pretty 
soft garments; above all, when, waking in the middle of 
the night, with the stars peering in at his window, or 
the moonlight shining across his little bed, he would not 
have been surprised to see her standing beside it, looking 
at him with those beautiful tender eyes, which seemed 
to have a pleasantness and comfort in them different 
from anything he had ever known. 

But she never came, and gradually she slipped out 
of his memory—only a boy’s memory after all; until 
something happened which made him remember her, and 
want her as he had never wanted anything before. 

Prince Dolor fell ill. He caught—his nurse could not 
tell how—a complaint common to the people of Nomans- 
land, called the doldrums, as unpleasant as measles or 
any other of our complaints; and it made him restless, 
cross, and disagreeable. Even when a little better, he 
was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long 
on his sofa, fidgeting his nurse extremely—while in her 
intense terror lest he might die, she fidgeted him still 
more. At last, seeing he really was getting well, she left 
him to himself—which he was most glad of, in spite of 
his dullness and dreariness. There he lay, alone, quite 
alone. 






48 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


Now and then an irritable fit came over him, in which 
he longed to get up and do something, or go somewhere— 
would have liked to imitate his white kitten— jump down 
from the tower and run away, taking the chance of what¬ 
ever might happen. 

Only one thing, alas! was likely to happen; for the 
kitten, he remembered, had four active legs, while he- 

“I wonder what my godmother meant when she looked 
at my legs and sighed so bitterly? I wonder why I can’t 
walk straight and steady like my nurse—only I wouldn’t 
like to have her great noisy, clumping shoes. Still, it 
would be very nice to move about quickly—perhaps to fly, 
like a bird, like that string of birds I saw the other day 
skimming across the sky—one after the other.” 

These were the passage-birds—the only living crea¬ 
tures that ever crossed the lonely plain; and he had been 
much interested in them, wondering whence they came 
and whither they were going. 

“How nice it must be to be a bird. If legs are no good, 
why cannot one have wings? People have wings when 
they die—perhaps: I wish I was dead, that I do. I am 
so tired, so tired; and nobody cares for me. Nobody ever 
did care for me, except perhaps my godmother. God¬ 
mother, dear, have you quite forsaken me?” 

He stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up, 
and dropped his head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt 
somebody kiss him at the back of his neck, and turning, 
found that he was resting, not on the sofa-pillows, but 

















































































































' 


































































- 












- 
























































THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


49 


on a warm shoulder—that of the little old woman clothed 
in grey. 

How glad he was to see her! How he looked into her 
kind eyes, and felt her hands, to see if she were all real 
and alive! then put both his arms round her neck, and 
kissed her as if he would never have done kissing! 

“Stop, stop!” cried she, pretending to be smothered. 
“I see you have not forgotten my teachings. Kissing is a 
good thing—in moderation. Only, just let me have breath 
to speak one word.” 

“A dozen!” he said. 

“Well, then, tell me all that has happened to you since 
I saw you—or rather, since you saw me, which is quite a 
different thing.” 

“Nothing has happened—nothing ever does happen 
to me,” answered the Prince dolefully. 

“And are you very dull, my boy?” 

“So dull, that I was just thinking whether I could 
not jump down to the bottom of the tower like my white 
kitten.” 

“Don’t do that, being not a white kitten.” 

“I wish I were!—I wish I were anything but what 
I am!” 

“And you can’t make yourself any different, nor can 
I do it either. You must be content to stay just what 
you are.” 

The little old woman said this—very firmly, but 
gently, too—with her arms round his neck, and her lips 
on his forehead. It was the first time the boy had ever 





50 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


heard any one talk like this, and he looked up in surprise 
—but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the 
hardness of her words. 

“Now, my prince—for you are a prince, and must 
behave as such—let us see what we can do; how much I 
can do for you, or show you how to do for yourself. 
Where is your travelling-cloak?” 

Prince Dolor blushed extremely. “I—I put it away 
in the cupboard; I suppose it is there still.” 

“You have never used it; you dislike it?” 

He hesitated, not wishing to be impolite. “Don’t you 
think it’s—just a little old and shabby, for a prince?” 

The old woman laughed—long and loud, though very 
sweetly. 

“Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the world 
craved for it, they couldn’t get it, unless I gave it them. 
Old and shabby! It’s the most valuable thing imaginable! 
Very few ever have it; but I thought I would give it to 
you, because—because you are different from other 
people.” 

“Am I?” said the Prince, and looked first with curi¬ 
osity, then with a sort of anxiety, into his godmother’s 
face, which was sad and grave, with slow tears beginning 
to steal down. 

She touched his poor little legs. “These are not like 
those of other little boys.” 

“Indeed!—my nurse never told me that.” 

“Very likely not. But it is time you were told; and I 
tell you, because I love you.” 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


61 


“Tell me what, dear godmother?” 

“That you will never be able to walk, or run, or jump, 
or play—that your life will be quite different to most 
people’s lives: but it may be a very happy life for all that. 
Do not be afraid.” 

“I am not afraid,” said the boy; but he turned very 
pale, and his lips began to quiver, though he did not actu¬ 
ally cry—he was too old for that, and, perhaps, too proud. 

Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly 
to guess what his godmother meant. He had never seen 
any real live boys, but he had seen pictures of them, run¬ 
ning and jumping; which he had admired and tried hard 
to imitate, but always failed. Now he began to under¬ 
stand why he failed, and that he always should fail— 
that, in fact, he was not like other little boys; and it was 
of no use his wishing to do as they did, and play as they 
played, even if he had had them to play with. His was 
a separate life, in which he must find out new work and 
new pleasures for himself. 

The sense of the inevitable, as grown-up people call it 
—that we cannot have things as we want them to be, but 
as they are, and that we must learn to bear them and 
make the best of them—this lesson, which everybody has 
to learn soon or late—came, alas, sadly soon, to the poor 
boy. He fought against it for a while, and then, quite 
overcome, turned and sobbed bitterly in his godmother’s 
arms. 

She comforted him—I do not know how, except that 
love always comforts; and then she whispered to him, 





52 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


in her sweet, strong, cheerful voice—“Never mind!” 

“No, I don’t think I do mind—that is, I won’t mind,” 
replied he, catching the courage of her tone and speaking 
like a man, though he was still such a mere boy. 

“That is right, my prince!—that is being like a 
prince. Now we know exactly where we are; let us put 
our shoulders to the wheel and-” 

“We are in Hopeless Tower” (this was its name, if it 
had a name), “and there is no wheel to put our shoulders 
to,” said the child sadly. 

“You little matter-of-fact goose! Well for you that 
you have a godmother called-” 

“What?” he eagerly asked. 

“Stuff-and-nonsense.” 

“Stuff-and-nonsense! What a funny name!” 

“Some people give it me, but they are not my most 
intimate friends. These call me—never mind what,” 
added the old woman, with a soft twinkle in her eyes. 
“So as you know me, and know me well, you may give 
me any name you please; it doesn’t matter. But I am 
your godmother, child. I have few godchildren; those I 
have love me dearly, and find me the greatest blessing 
in all the world.” 

“I can well believe it,” cried the little lame Prince, 
and forgot his troubles in looking at her—as her figure 
dilated, her eyes grew lustrous as stars, her very raiment 
brightened, and the whole room seemed filled with her 
beautiful and beneficent presence like light. 

He could have looked at her forever—half in love, 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


53 


half in awe; but she suddenly dwindled down into the 
little old woman all in grey, and with a malicious twinkle 
in her eyes, asked for the travelling-cloak. 

“Bring it out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake the 
dust off it, quick!” said she to Prince Dolor, who hung 
his head, rather ashamed. “Spread it out on the floor, 
and wait till the split closes and the edges turn up like 
a rim all round. Then go and open the sky-light—mind, 
I say open the skylight —set yourself down in the middle 
of it, like a frog on a water-lily leaf; say ‘Abracadabra, 
dum dum dum,’ and—see what will happen.” 

The prince burst into a fit of laughing. It all seemed 
so exceedingly silly; he wondered that a wise old woman 
like his godmother should talk such nonsense. 

“Stuff-and-nonsense, you mean,” said she, answering, 
to his great alarm, his unspoken thoughts. “Did I not 
tell you some people called me by that name? Never 
mind; it doesn’t harm me.” 

And she laughed—her merry laugh—as child-like as 
if she were the prince’s age, instead of her own, whatever 
that might be. She certainly was a most extraordinary 
old woman. 

“Believe me or not, it doesn’t matter,” said she. 
“Here is the cloak; when you want to go travelling on it, 
say Abracadabra, dum dum dum; when you want to 
come back again, say Abracadabra, turn turn ti. That’s 
all; goodbye.” 

A puff of pleasant air passing by him, and making 
him feel for the moment quite strong and well, was all 





54 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


the Prince was conscious of. His most extraordinary god¬ 
mother was gone. 

“Really now, how rosy your Royal Highness’s cheeks 
have grown! You seem to have got well already,” said 
the nurse, entering the room. 

“I think I have,” replied the Prince very gently—he 
felt kindly and gently even to his grim nurse. “And now 
let me have my dinner, and go you to your sewing as 
usual.” 

The instant she was gone, however, taking with her 
the plates and dishes, which for the first time since his 
illness he had satisfactorily cleared, Prince Dolor sprang 
down from his sofa, and with one or two of his frog-like 
jumps, not graceful but convenient, he reached the cup¬ 
board where he kept his toys, and looked everywhere for 
his travelling-cloak. 

Alas! it was not there. 

While he was ill of the doldrums, his nurse, thinking 
it a good opportunity for putting things to rights, had 
made a grand clearance of all his “rubbish,” as she con¬ 
sidered it: his beloved headless horses, broken carts, sheep 
without feet, and birds without wings—all the treasures 
of his baby days, which he could not bear to part with. 
Though he seldom played with them now, he liked just to 
feel they were there. 

They were all gone! and with them the travelling- 
cloak. He sat down on the floor, looking at the empty 
shelves, so beautifully clean and tidy, then burst out 
sobbing as if his heart would break. 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


55 


But quietly—always quietly. He never let his nurse 
hear him cry. She only laughed at him, as he felt she 
would laugh now. 

“And it is all my own fault,” he cried. “I ought to 
have taken better care of my godmother’s gift. 0, god¬ 
mother, forgive me! I’ll never be so careless again. I 
don’t know what the cloak is exactly, but I am sure it is 
something precious. Help me to find it again. Oh, don’t 
let it be stolen from me—don’t, please!” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed a silvery voice. “Why, that 
travelling-cloak is the one thing in the world which 
nobody can steal. It is of no use to anybody except the 
owner. Open your eyes, my prince, and see what you 
shall see.” 

His dear old godmother, he thought, had turned 
eagerly round. But no; he only beheld, lying in a corner 
of the room, all dust and cobwebs, his precious travelling- 
cloak. 

Prince Dolor darted towards it, tumbling several 
times on the way,—as he often did tumble, poor boy! and 
pick himself up again, never complaining. Snatching it 
to his breast, he hugged and kissed it, cobwebs and all, 
as if it had been something alive. Then he began unroll¬ 
ing it, wondering each minute what would happen. But 
what did happen was so curious that I must leave it for 
another chapter. 






F any reader, big or little, should wonder 
whether there is a meaning in this story, deeper 
than that of an ordinary fairy tale, I will own that there 
is. But I have hidden it so carefully that the smaller 
people, and many larger folk, will never find it out, and 
meantime the book may be read straight on, like “Cinder¬ 
ella,” or “Bluebeard,” or “Hop-o’-my-Thumb,” for what 
interest it has, or what amusement it may bring. 

Having said this, I return to Prince Dolor, that little 
lame boy whom many may think so exceedingly to be 




56 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


57 


pitied. But if you had seen him as he sat patiently 
untying his wonderful cloak, which was done up in a 
very tight and perplexing parcel, using skilfully his deft 
little hands, and knitting his brows with firm determina¬ 
tion, while his eyes glistened with pleasure, and energy, 
and eager anticipation—if you had beheld him thus, you 
might have changed your opinion. 

When we see people suffering or unfortunate, we feel 
very sorry for them; but when we see them bravely bear¬ 
ing their sufferings, and making the best of their misfor¬ 
tunes, it is quite a different feeling. We respect, we 
admire them. One can respect and admire even a little 
child. 

When Prince Dolor had patiently untied all the knots, 
a remarkable thing happened. The cloak began to undo 
itself. Slowly unfolding, it laid itself down on the carpet, 
as flat as if it had been ironed; the split joined with a 
little sharp crick-crack, and the rim turned up all round 
till it was breast-high; for meantime the cloak had grown 
and grown, and become quite large enough for one person 
to sit in it, as comfortable as if in a boat. 

The Prince watched it rather anxiously; it was such 
an extraordinary, not to say frightening thing. However, 
he was no coward, but a thorough boy, who, if he had been 
like other boys, would doubtless have grown up daring 
and adventurous—a soldier, a sailor, or the like. As it 
was, he could only show his courage morally, not phys¬ 
ically, by being afraid of nothing, and by doing boldly 
all that it was in his narrow powers to do. And I am not 





"58 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


sure but that in this way he showed more real valour than 
if he had had six pairs of proper legs. 

He said to himself, “What a goose I am! As if my 
dear godmother would ever have given me anything to 
hurt me. Here goes!” 

So, with one of his active leaps, he sprang right into 
the middle of the cloak, where he squatted down, wrap¬ 
ping his arms tight round his knees, for they shook a little 
and his heart beat fast. But there he sat, steady and 
silent, waiting for what might happen next. 

Nothing did happen, and he began to think nothing 
would, and to feel rather disappointed, when he recol¬ 
lected the words he had been told to repeat—“Abracada¬ 
bra, dum, dum, dum!” 

He repeated them, laughing all the while, they 
seemed such nonsense. And then—and then- 

Now I don’t expect anybody to believe what I am 
going to relate, though a good many wise people have 
believed a good many sillier things. And as seeing’s 
believing, and I never saw it, I cannot be expected 
implicitly to believe it myself, except in a sort of a way; 
and yet there is truth in it—for some people. 

The cloak rose, slowly and steadily, at first only a 
few inches, then gradually higher and higher, till it 
nearly touched the skylight. Prince Dolor’s head actually 
bumped against the glass, or would have done so, had he 
not crouched down, crying, “Oh, please don’t hurt me!” 
in a most melancholy voice. 

Then he suddenly remembered his godmother’s ex¬ 
press command—“Open the skylight!” 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


59 


Regaining his courage, at once, without a moment’s 
delay, he lifted up his head and began searching for the 
bolt, the cloak meanwhile remaining perfectly still, bal¬ 
anced in air. But the minute the window was opened, out 
it sailed—right out into the clear fresh air, with nothing 
between it and the cloudless blue. 

Prince Dolor had never felt any such delicious sen¬ 
sation before! I can understand it. Cannot you? Did you 
never think, in watching the rooks going home singly 
or in pairs, oaring their way across the calm evening sky, 
till they vanish like black dots in the misty grey, how 
pleasant it must feel to be up there, quite out of the noise 
and din of the world, able to hear and see everything 
down below, yet troubled by nothing and teased by no 
one—all alone but perfectly content. 

Something like this was the happiness of the little 
lame Prince when he got out of Hopeless Tower, and 
found himself for the first time in the pure open air, with 
the sky above him and the earth below. 

True, there was nothing but earth and sky; no houses, 
no trees, no rivers, mountains, seas—not a beast on the 
ground, or a bird in the air. But to him even the level 
plain looked beautiful; and then there was the glorious 
arch of the sky, with a little young moon sitting in the 
west like a baby queen. And the evening breeze was so 
sweet and fresh, it kissed him like his godmother’s 
kisses; and by-and-by a few stars came out, first two or 
three, and then quantities—quantities! so that, when he 




60 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


began to count them, he was utterly bewildered. 

By this time, however, the cool breeze had become 
cold, the mist gathered, and as he had, as he said, no out¬ 
door clothes, poor Prince Dolor was not very comfortable. 
The dews fell damp on his curls—he began to shiver. 

“Perhaps I had better go home,” thought he. 

But how?—For in his excitement the other words 
which his godmother had told him to use had slipped his 
memory. They were only a little different from the first, 
but in that slight difference all the importance lay. As 
he repeated his “Abracadabra,” trying ever so many 
other syllables after it, the cloak only went faster and 
faster, skimming on through the dusky empty air. 

The poor little Prince began to feel frightened. What 
if his wonderful travelling-cloak should keep on thus 
travelling, perhaps to the world's end, carrying with it a 
poor, tired, hungry boy, who, after all, was beginning to 
think there was something pleasant in supper and bed? 

“Dear godmother,” he cried pitifully, “do help me! 
Tell me just this once and Pll never forget again.” 

Instantly the words came rushing into his head— 
“Abracadabra, turn, turn, ti!” Was that it? Ah, yes!— 
for the cloak began to turn slowly. He repeated the charm 
again, more distinctly and firmly, when it gave a gentle 
dip, like a nod of satisfaction, and immediately started 
back, as fast as ever, in the direction of the tower. 

He reached the skylight, which he found exactly as 
he had left it, and slipped in, cloak and all, as easily as 
he had got out. He had scarcely reached the floor, and 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


61 


was still sitting in the middle of his travelling-cloak— 
like a frog on a water-lily leaf, as his godmother had 
expressed it—when he heard his nurse’s voice outside. 

“Bless us! what has become of your Royal Highness 
all this time? To sit stupidly here at the window till it 
is quite dark, and leave the skylight open too. Prince! 
what can you be thinking of? You are the silliest boy I 
ever knew.” 

“Am I?” said he absently, and never heeding her 
crossness; for his only anxiety was lest she might find 
out anything. 

She would have been a very clever person to have 
done so. The instant Prince Dolor got off it, the cloak 
folded itself up into the tiniest possible parcel, tied all 
its own knots, and rolled itself of its own accord into the 
farthest and darkest corner of the room. If the nurse had 
seen it, which she didn’t, she would have taken it for a 
mere bundle of rubbish not worth noticing. 

Shutting the skylight with an angry bang, she 
brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual 
unhappy expression of countenance. But Prince Dolor 
hardly saw it; he only saw, hid in the corner where 
nobody else would see it, his wonderful travelling-cloak. 
And though his supper was not particularly nice, he ate 
it heartily, scarcely hearing a word of his nurse’s grum¬ 
bling, which to-night seemed to have taken the place of 
her sullen silence. 

“Poor woman!” he thought, when he paused a minute 
to listen and look at her, with those quiet, happy eyes, so 



G2 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


like his mothers. “Poor woman! she hasn’t got a travel¬ 
ling-cloak!” 

And when he was left alone at last, and crept into his 
little bed, where he lay awake a good while, watching 
what he called his “sky-garden,” all planted with stars, 
like flowers, his chief thought was, “I must be up very 
early to-morrow morning and get my lessons done, and 
then I’ll go travelling all over the world on my beautiful 
cloak.” 

So, next day, he opened his eyes with the sun, and 
went with a good heart to his lessons. They had hitherto 
been the chief amusement of his dull life; now, I am 
afraid, he found them also a little dull. But he tried to 
be good—I don’t say Prince Dolor always was good, but 
he generally tried to be—and when his mind went wan¬ 
dering after the dark dusty corner where lay his precious 
treasure, he resolutely called it back again. 

“For,” he said, “how ashamed my godmother would 
be of me if I grew up a stupid boy.” 

But the instant lessons were done, and he was alone 
in the empty room, he crept across the floor, undid the 
shabby little bundle, his fingers trembling with eagerness, 
climbed on the chair, and thence to the table, so as to 
unbar the skylight—he forgot nothing now—said his 
magic charm, and was away out of the window, as chil¬ 
dren say, “in a few minutes less than no time!” 

Nobody missed him. He was accustomed to sit so 
quietly always, that his nurse, though only in the next 
room, perceived no difference. And besides, she might 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


63 


have gone in and out a dozen times, and it would have 
been just the same; she never could have found out his 
absence. 

For what do you think the clever godmother did? She 
took a quantity of moonshine, or some equally convenient 
material, and made an image, which she set on the 
window-sill reading, or by the table drawing, where it 
looked so like Prince Dolor, that any common observer 
would never have guessed the deception; and even the boy 
would have been puzzled to know which was the image 
and which was himself. 

And all this while the happy little fellow was away, 
floating in the air on his magic cloak, and seeing all sorts 
of wonderful things—or they seemed wonderful to him, 
who had hitherto seen nothing at all. 

First, there were the flowers that grew on the plain, 
which, whenever the cloak came near enough, he strained 
his eyes to look at; they were very tiny, but very beautiful 
—white saxifrage, and yellow lotus, and ground-thistles, 
purple and bright, with many others the names of which 
I do not know. No more did Prince Dolor, though he 
tried to find them out by recalling any pictures he had 
seen of them. But he was too far off; and though it was 
pleasant enough to admire them as brilliant patches of 
colour, still he would have liked to examine them all. He 
was, as a little girl I know once said of a playfellow, “a 
very examining boy.” 

“I wonder,” he thought, “whether I could see better 
through a pair of glasses like those my nurse reads with, 





64 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 



and takes such care of. How I would take care of them 
too! if only I had a pair!” 

Immediately he felt something queer and hard fixing 
itself on to the bridge of his nose. It was a pair of the 
prettiest gold spectacles ever seen; and looking down¬ 
wards, he found that, though ever so high above the 
ground, he could see every minute blade of grass, every 
tiny bud and flower—nay, even the insects that walked 
over them. 

“Thank you, thank you!” he cried in a gush of grati¬ 
tude—to anybody or everybody, but especially to his 
dear godmother, whom he felt sure had given him this 
new present. He amused himself with it for ever so long, 
with his chin pressed on the rim of the cloak, gazing 
down upon the grass, every square foot of which was a 
mine of wonders. 

Then, just to rest his eyes, he turned them up to the 
sky—the blue, bright, empty sky, which he had looked at 
so often and seen nothing. 

Now, surely there was something. A long, black, 
wavy line, moving on in the distance, not by chance, as 
the clouds move apparently, but deliberately, as if it were 












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-« 

t* 




. 
























J* 



■ 












N 




















THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


65 


alive. He might have seen it before—he almost thought 
he had; but then he could not tell what it was. Looking 
at it through his spectacles, he discovered that it really 
was alive being a long string of birds, flying one after the 
other, their wings moving steadily and their heads 
pointed in one direction, as steadily as if each were a lit¬ 
tle ship, guided invisibly by an unerring helm. 

“They must be the passage-birds flying seawards!” 
cried the boy, who had read a little about them, and had 
a great talent for putting two and two together and find¬ 
ing out all he could. “Oh, how I should like to see them 
quite close, and to know where they come from, and 
whither they are going! How I wish I knew everything 
in all the world!” 

A silly speech for even an “examining” little boy to 
make; because, as we grow older, the more we know, the 
more we find out there is to know. And Prince Dolor 
blushed when he had said it, and hoped nobody had heard 
him. 

Apparently somebody had, however; for the cloak 
gave a sudden bound forward, and presently he found 
himself high up in the air, in the very middle of that band 
of aerial travellers, who had no magic cloak to travel on 
—nothing except their wings. Yet there they were, mak¬ 
ing their fearless way through the sky. 

Prince Dolor looked at them, as one after the other 
they glided past him; and they looked at him—those 
pretty swallows, with their changing necks and bright 
eyes—as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraor¬ 
dinary sort of a bird. 




66 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


“Oh, I wish I were going with you, you lovely crea¬ 
tures!” cried the boy. “I’m getting so tired of this dull 
plain, and the dreary and lonely tower. I do so want to 
see the world! Pretty swallows, dear swallows! tell me 
what it looks like—the beautiful, wonderful world!” 

But the swallows flew past him—steadily, slowly, 
pursuing their course as if inside each little head had 
been a mariner’s compass, to guide them safe over land 
and sea, direct to the place where they desired to go. 

The boy looked after them with envy. For a long time 
he followed with his eyes the faint wavy black line as it 
floated away, sometimes changing its curves a little, but 
never deviating from its settled course, till it vanished 
entirely out of sight. 

Then he settled himself down in the center of the 
cloak, feeling quite sad and lonely. 

“I think I’ll go home,” said he, and repeated his 
“Abracadabra, turn, turn, ti!” with a rather heavy heart. 
The more he had, the more he wanted; and it is not 
always one can have everything one wants—at least, at 
the exact minute one craves for it not even though one 
is a prince, and has a powerful and beneficent godmother. 

He did not like to vex her by calling for her, and 
telling her how unhappy he was, in spite of all her good¬ 
ness; so he just kept his trouble to himself, went back to 
his lonely tower, and spent three days in silent melan¬ 
choly without even attempting another journey on his 
travelling-cloak. 





HE fourth day it happened that the deaf-mute 
paid his accustomed visit, after which Prince 
Dolor’s spirits rose. They always did, when 
he got the new books, which, just to relieve 
his conscience, the King of Nomansland regularly sent to 
his nephew; with many new toys also, though the latter 
were disregarded now. 

“Toys indeed! when I’m a big boy,” said the Prince 
with disdain, and would scarcely condescend to mount a 

67 









68 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


rocking-horse, which had come, somehow or other—I 
can’t be expected to explain things very exactly—packed 
on the back of the other, the great black horse, which 
stood and fed contentedly at the bottom of the tower. 

Prince Dolor leaned over and looked at it, and thought 
how grand it must be to get upon its back—this grand 
live steed—and ride away, like the pictures of knights. 

“Suppose I was a knight,” he said to himself; “then 
I should be obliged to ride out and see the world.” 

But he kept all these thoughts to himself, and just 
sat still, devouring his new books till he had come to the 
end of them all. It was a repast not unlike the Barme¬ 
cide’s feast which you read of in the “Arabian Nights,” 
which consisted of very elegant but empty dishes, or that 
supper of Sancho Panza in “Don Quixote,” where, the 
minute the smoking dishes came on the table, the physi¬ 
cian waved his hand and they were all taken away. 

Thus, almost all the ordinary delights of boy-life had 
been taken away from, or rather never given to, this 
poor little Prince. 

“I wonder,” he would sometimes think—“I wonder 
what it feels like to be on the back of a horse, galloping 
away, or holding the reins in a carriage, and tearing 
across the country, or jumping a ditch, or running a 
race, such as I read of or see in pictures. What a lot of 
things there are that I should like to do! But first, I 
should like to go and see the world. I’ll try.” 

Apparently it was his godmother’s plan always to 
let him try, and try hard, before he gained anything. This 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


69 


day the knots that tied up his travelling-cloak were more 
than usually troublesome, and he was a full half hour 
before he got out into the open air, and found himself 
floating merrily over the top of the tower. 

Hitherto, in all his journeys he had never let himself 
go out of sight of home, for the dreary building, after all, 
was home—he remembered no other; but now he felt 
sick of the very look of his tower, with its round smooth 
walls and level battlements. 

“Off we go!” cried he, when the cloak stirred itself 
with a slight slow motion, as if waiting his orders. “Any¬ 
where—anywhere, so that I am away from here, and out 
into the world.” 

As he spoke, the cloak, as if seized suddenly with a 
new idea, bounded forward and went skimming through 
the air, faster than the very fastest railway train. 

“Gee-up, gee-up!” cried Prince Dolor in great excite¬ 
ment. “This is as good as riding a race.” 

And he patted the cloak as if it had been a horse— 
that is, in the way he supposed horses ought to be patted; 
and tossed his head back to meet the fresh breeze, and 
pulled his coat-collar up and his hat down, and as he 
felt the wind grow keener and colder, colder than any¬ 
thing he had ever known. 

“What does it matter though?” said he. “Pm a boy, 
and boys ought not to mind anything.” 

Still, for all his good-will, by-and-by he began to 
shiver exceedingly; also, he had come away without his 
dinner, and he grew frightfully hungry. And to add to 



70 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


everything, the sunshiny day changed into rain, and 
being high up, in the very midst of the clouds, he got 
soaked through and through in a very few minutes. 

“Shall I turn back?” meditated he. “Suppose I say 
‘Abracadabra?’ ” 

Here he stopped, for already the cloak gave an obe¬ 
dient lurch, as if it were expecting to be sent home imme¬ 
diately. 

“No—I can’t—I can’t go back! I must go forward 
and see the world. But, oh! if I had but the shabbiest 
old rug to shelter me from the rain, or the driest morsel 
of bread and cheese, just to keep me from starving! Still, 
I don’t much mind; I’m a prince, and ought to be able 
to stand anything. Hold on, cloak, we’ll make the best 
of it.” 

It was a most curious circumstance, but no sooner had 
he said this than he felt stealing over his knees something 
warm and soft; in fact, a most beautiful bearskin, which 
folded itself round him quite naturally, and cuddled him 
up as closely as if he had been the cub of the kind old 
mother-bear that once owned it. Then feeling in his pock¬ 
et, which suddenly stuck out in a marvelous way, he 
found, not exactly bread and cheese, nor even sandwiches, 
but a packet of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. 
It was not meat, nor pudding, but a combination of both, 
and it served him excellently for both. He ate his dinner 
with the greatest gusto imaginable, till he grew so thirsty 
he did not know what to do. 

“Couldn’t I have just one drop of water, if it didn’t 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


71 


trouble you too much, kindest of godmothers.” 

For he really thought this want was beyond her power 
to supply. All the water which supplied Hopeless Tower 
was pumped up with difficulty, from a deep artesian well 
—there were such things known in Nomansland—which 
had been made at the foot of it. But around, for miles 
upon miles, the desolate plain was perfectly dry. And 
above it, high in air, how could he expect to find a well, or 
to get even a drop of water? 

He forgot one thing—the rain. While he spoke, it 
came on in another wild burst, as if the clouds had poured 
themselves out in a passion of crying, wetting him cer¬ 
tainly, but leaving behind, in a large glass vessel which he 
had never noticed before, enough water to quench the 
thirst of two or three boys at least. And it was so fresh, so 
pure—as water from the clouds always is, when it does 
not catch the soot from city chimneys and other defile¬ 
ments—that he drank it, every drop, with the greatest 
delight and content. 

Also, as soon as it was empty, the rain filled it again, 
so that he was able to wash his face and hands and 
refresh himself exceedingly. Then the sun came out and 
dried him in no time. After that he curled himself up 
under the bearskin rug, and though he determined to be 
the most wide-awake boy imaginable, being so exceeding¬ 
ly snug and warm and comfortable, Prince Dolor 
condescended to shut his eyes, just for one minute. The 
next minute he was sound asleep. 

When he awoke, he found himself floating over a 





72 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


country quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. 

Yet it was nothing but what most of you children see 
every day and never notice it—a pretty country land¬ 
scape, like England, Scotland, France or any other land 
you choose to name. It had no particular features—noth¬ 
ing in it grand or lovely—was simply pretty, nothing 
more; yet to Prince Dolor, who had never gone beyond 
his lonely tower and level plain, it appeared the most 
charming sight imaginable. 

First, there was a river. It came tumbling down the 
hillside, frothing and foaming, playing at hide-and-seek 
among rocks, then bursting out in noisy fun like a child, 
to bury itself in deep still pools. Afterwards it went 
steadily on for a while, like a good grown-up person, till 
it came to another big rock, where it misbehaved itself 
extremely. It turned into a cataract and went tumbling 
over and over, after a fashion that made the Prince— 
who had never seen water before, except in his bath or 
his drinking-cup clap his hands with delight. 

“It is so active, so alive! I like things active and 
alive!” cried he, and watched it shimmering and dancing, 
whirling and leaping, till, after a few windings and 
vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream. After that 
it went along, deep and quiet, but flowing steadily on, till 
it reached a large lake, into which it slipped, and so ended 
its course. 

All this the boy saw, either with his own naked eye, 
or through his gold spectacles. He saw also as in a pic¬ 
ture, beautiful but silent, many other things, which 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


73 


struck him with wonder, especially a grove of trees. 

Only think, to have lived to his age (which he himself 
did not know, as he did not know his own birthday) and 
never to have seen trees! As he floated over these oaks, 
they seemed to him—trunk, branches, and leaves—the 
most curious sight imaginable. 

“If I could only get nearer, so as to touch them,” said 
he, and immediately the obedient cloak ducked down; 
Prince Dolor made a snatch at the topmost twig of the 
tallest tree, and caught a bunch of leaves in his hand. 

Just a bunch of green leaves—such as we see in 
myriads; watching them bud, grow, fall, and then kick¬ 
ing them along on the ground as if they were worth noth¬ 
ing. Yet, how wonderful they are—every one of them a 
little different. I don’t suppose you could ever find two 
leaves exactly alike, in form, colour, and size—no more 
than you could find two faces alike, or two characters 
exactly the same. The plan of this world is infinite simi¬ 
larity and yet infinite variety. 

Prince Dolor examined his leaves with the greatest 
curiosity—and also a little caterpillar that he found 
walking over one of them. He coaxed it to take an addi¬ 
tional walk over his finger, which it did with the greatest 
dignity and decorum, as if it, Mr. Caterpillar, were the 
most important individual in existence. It amused him 
for a long time; and when a sudden gust of wind blew 
it overboard, leaves and all, he felt quite disconsolate. 

“Still, there must be many live creatures in the world 
besides caterpillars. I should like to see a few of them.” 




74 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


The cloak gave a little dip down, as if to say “All 
right, my Prince,” and bore him across the oak forest to 
a long fertile valley—called in Scotland a strath, and in 
England a weald—but what they call it in the tongue of 
Nomansland I do not know. It was made up of corn¬ 
fields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds. 
Also, in it were what the Prince had desired to see, a 
quantity of living creatures, wild and tame. Cows and 
horses, lambs and sheep, fed in the meadows; pigs and 
fowls walked about the farmyards; and, in lonelier 
places, hares scudded, rabbits burrowed, and pheasants 
and partridges, with many other smaller birds, inhabited 
the fields and woods. 

Through his wonderful spectacles the Prince could 
see everything; but, as I said, it was a silent picture; he 
was too high up to catch anything except a faint murmur, 
which only aroused his anxiety to hear more. 

“I have as good as two pairs of eyes,” he thought. “I 
wonder if my godmother would give me a second pair of 
ears.” 

Scarcely had he spoken, than he found lying on his 
lap the most curious little parcel, all done up in silvery 
paper. And it contained—what do you think? Actually, 
a pair of silver ears, which, when he tried them on, fitted 
so exactly over his own, that he hardly felt them, except 
for the difference they made in his hearing. 

There is something which we listen to daily and 
never notice. I mean the sounds of the visible world, 
animate and inanimate. Winds blowing, water flowing, 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


75 



trees stirring, insects whirring (dear me! I am quite 
unconsciously writing rhyme), with the various cries of 
birds and beasts—lowing cattle, bleating sheep, grunt¬ 
ing pigs, and cackling hens—all the infinite discords that 
somehow or other make a beautiful harmony. 

We hear this, and are so accustomed to it that we 
think nothing of it; but Prince Dolor, who had lived all 
his days in the dead silence of Hopeless Tower, heard it 
for the first time. And oh! if you had seen his face. 

He listened, listened, as if he could never have done 
listening. And he looked and looked, as if he could not 
gaze enough. Above all, the motion of the animals de¬ 
lighted him: cows walking, horses galloping, little lambs 
and calves running races across the meadows, were such 
a treat for him to watch—he that was always so quiet. 
But, these creatures having four legs, and he only two, 
the difference did not strike him painfully. 




76 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


Still, by-and-by, after the fashion of children—and, 
I fear, of many big people too—he began to want some¬ 
thing more than he had, something that would be quite 
fresh and new. 

“Godmother,” he said, having now begun to believe 
that, whether he saw her or not, he could always speak 
to her with full confidence that she would hear him— 
“Godmother, all these creatures I like exceedingly—but 
I should like better to see a creature like myself. Couldn’t 
you show me just one little boy?” 

There was a sigh behind him—it might have been 
only the wind—and the cloak remained so long balanced 
motionless in air, that he was half afraid his godmother 
had forgotten him, or was offended with him for asking 
too much. Suddenly, a shrill whistle startled him, even 
through his silver ears, and looking downwards, he saw 
start up from behind a bush on a common, something— 

Neither a sheep, nor a horse, nor a cow—nothing 
upon four legs. This creature had only two; but they 
were long, straight, and strong. And it had a lithe active 
body, and a curly head of black hair set upon its shoul¬ 
ders. It was a boy, a shepherdboy, about the Prince’s 
own age—but, oh! so different. 

Not that he was an ugly boy—though his face was 
almost as red as his hands, and his shaggy hair matted 
like the backs of his own sheep. He was rather a nice 
looking lad; and seemed so bright, and healthy, and good- 
tempered—“jolly” would be the word, only I am not 
sure if they have such a one in the elegant language of 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


77 


Nomansland—that the little Prince watched him with 
great admiration. 

“Might he come and play with me? I would drop 
down to the ground to him, or fetch him up to me here. 
Oh, how nice it would be if I only had a little boy to play 
with me!” 

But the cloak, usually so obedient to his wishes, dis¬ 
obeyed him now. There were evidently some things 
which his godmother either could not or would not give. 
The cloak hung stationary, high in air, never attempting 
to descend. The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large 
bird and, shading his eyes, looked up at it, making the 
Prince’s heart beat fast. 

However, nothing ensued. The boy turned round, 
with a long, loud whistle—seemingly his usual and only 
way of expressing his feelings. He could not make the 
thing out exactly—it was a rather mysterious affair, but 
it did not trouble him much —he was not an “examining” 
boy. 

Then, stretching himself, for he had been evidently 
half asleep, he began flopping his shoulders with his 
arms, to wake and warm himself; while his dog, a rough 
collie, who had been guarding the sheep meanwhile, be¬ 
gan to jump upon him, barking with delight. 

“Down Snap, down! Stop that, or I’ll thrash you,” 
the Prince heard him say; though with such a rough hard 
voice and queer pronunciation that it was difficult to 
make the words out. “Hollo! Let’s warm ourselves by 
a race.” 





78 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


They started off together, boy and dog—barking and 
shouting, till it was doubtful which made the most noise 
or ran the fastest. A regular steeple-chase it was: first 
across the level common, greatly disturbing the quiet 
sheep; and then tearing away across country, scrambling 
through hedges, and leaping ditches, and tumbling up 
and down over ploughed fields. They did not seem to 
have anything to run for—but as if they did it, both of 
them, for the mere pleasure of motion. 

And what a pleasure that seemed! To the dog of 
course, but scarcely less to the boy. How he skimmed 
along over the ground—his cheeks glowing, and his hair 
flying, and his legs—oh, what a pair of legs he had! 

Prince Dolor watched him with great intentness, and 
in a state of excitement almost equal to that of the run¬ 
ner himself—for a while. Then the sweet pale face grew 
a trifle paler, the lips began to quiver and the eyes to fill. 

“How nice it must be to run like that!” he said softly, 
thinking that never—no, never in this world—would he 
be able to do the same. 

Now he understood what his godmother had meant 
when she gave him his travelling-cloak, and why he had 
heard that sigh—he was sure it was hers—when he had 
asked to see “just one little boy.” 

“I think I had rather not look at him again,” said the 
poor little Prince, drawing himself back into the centre of 
his cloak, and resuming his favourite posture, sitting like 
a Turk, with his arms wrapped round his feeble, useless 
legs. 



THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


79 


“You’re no good to me,” he said, patting them mourn¬ 
fully. “You never will be any good to me. I wonder why 
I had you at all; I wonder why I was born at all, since 
I was not to grow up like other little boys. Why not?” 

A question, so strange, so sad, yet so often occurring 
in some form or other, in this world—as you will find, 
my children, when you are older—that even if he had put 
it to his mother she could only have answered it, as we 
have to answer many as difficult things,by simply saying, 
“I don’t know.” There is much that we do not know, and 
cannot understand—we big folks, no more than you lit¬ 
tle ones. We have to accept it all just as you have to ac¬ 
cept anything which your parents may tell you, even 
though you don’t as yet see the reason of it. You may 
some time if you do exactly as they tell you, and are con¬ 
tent to wait. 

Prince Dolor sat a good while thus, or it appeared to 
him a good while, so many thoughts came and went 
through his poor young mind—thoughts of great bitter¬ 
ness, which, little though he was, seemed to make him 
grow years older in a few minutes. 

Then he fancied the cloak began to rock gently to and 
fro, with a soothing kind of motion, as if he were in some¬ 
body’s arms: somebody who did not speak, but loved him 
and comforted him without need of words; not by de¬ 
ceiving him with false encouragement or hope, but by 
making him see the plain hard truth, in all its hardness, 
and thus letting him quietly face it, till it grew softened 
down, and did not seem nearly so dreadful after all. 




80 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


Through the dreary silence and blankness, for he had 
placed himself so that he could see nothing but the sky, 
and had taken off his silver ears, as well as his gold 
spectacles—what was the use of either when he had no 
legs to walk or run?—up from below there rose a deli¬ 
cious sound. 

You have heard it hundreds of times, my children, 
and so have I. When I was a child I thought there was 
nothing so sweet and I think so still. It was just the song 
of a skylark, mounting higher and higher from the 
ground, till it came so close that Prince Dolor could dis¬ 
tinguish its quivering wings and tiny body, almost too 
tiny to contain such a gush of music. 

“0, you beautiful, beautiful bird!” cried he; “I should 
dearly like to take you in and cuddle you. That is, if I 
could—if I dared.” 

But he hesitated. The little brown creature with its 
loud heavenly voice almost made him afraid. Neverthe¬ 
less, it also made him happy; and he watched and listened 
—so absorbed that he forgot all regret and pain, forgot 
everything in the world except the little lark. 

It soared and soared, and he was just wondering if 
it would soar out of sight, and what in the world he 
should do when it was gone, when it suddenly closed its 
wings, as larks do, when they mean to drop to the 
ground. But, instead of dropping to the ground, it 
dropped right into the little boy’s breast. 

What felicity! If it would only stay! A tiny soft 
thing to fondle and kiss, to sing to him all day long, and 






WM 


■ 














































. - 








' 
















THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


81 


be his playfellow and companion, tame and tender, while 
to the rest of the world it was a wild bird of the air. What 
a pride, what a delight! To have something that nobody 
else had—something all his own. As the travelling-cloak 
travelled on, he little heeded where, and the lark still 
stayed, nestled down in his bosom, hopped from his hand 
to his shoulder, and kissed him with its dainty beak, at; 
if it loved him, Prince Dolor forgot all his grief, and was 
entirely happy. 

But when he got in sight of Hopeless Tower, a pain¬ 
ful thought struck him. 

“My pretty bird, what am I to do with you? If I 
take you into my room and shut you up there, you, a 
wild skylark of the air, what will become of you? I am 
used to this, but you are not. You will be so miserable, 
and suppose my nurse should find you—she who can’t 
bear the sound of singing? Besides, I remember her once 
telling me that the nicest thing she ever ate in her life 
was lark pie!” 

The little boy shivered all over at the thought. And, 
though the merry lark immediately broke into the loud¬ 
est carol, as if saying derisively that he defied anybody 
to eat him —still Prince Dolor was very uneasy. In an¬ 
other minute he had made up his mind. 

“No, my bird, nothing so dreadful shall happen to you 
if I can help it; I would rather do without you altogether. 
Yes, I’ll try. Fly away, my darling, my beautiful! Good¬ 
bye, my merry, merry bird.” 

Opening his two caressing hands, in which, as if for 




82 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


protection, he had folded it, he let the lark go. It lingered 
a minute, perching on the rim of the cloak, and looking at 
him with eyes of almost human tenderness; then away it 
flew, far up into the blue sky. It was only a bird. 

But, some time after, when Prince Dolor had eaten 
his supper—somewhat drearily, except for the thought 
that he could not possibly sup off lark pie now—and gone 
quietly to bed, the old familiar little bed, where he was 
accustomed to sleep, or lie awake contentedly thinking— 
suddenly he heard outside the window a little faint carol 
—faint but cheerful—cheerful, even though it was the 
middle of the night. 

The dear little lark! it had not flown away after all. 
And it was truly the most extraordinary bird, for, unlike 
ordinary larks, it kept hovering about the tower in the 
silence and darkness of the night, outside the window or 
over the roof. Whenever he listened for a moment, he 
heard it singing still. 

He went to sleep as happy as a king. 







APPY as a king.” How far kings are happy I 
cannot say, no more than could Prince Dolor, 
though he had once been a king himself. But 
he remembered nothing about it, and there 
was nobody to tell him, except his nurse, who had been 
forbidden upon pain of death to let him know anything 
about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or, indeed, 
any part of his own history. 


83 














84 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


Sometimes he speculated about himself, whether he 
had had a father and mother as other little boys had, 
what they had been like, and why he had never seen them. 
But, knowing nothing about them, he did not miss them 
—only once or twice, reading pretty stories about little 
children and their mothers, who helped them when they 
were in difficulty, and comforted them when they were 
sick, he, feeling ill and dull and lonely, wondered what 
had become of his mother, and why she never came to see 
him. 

Then, in his history lessons, of course, he read about 
kings and princes, and the governments of different coun¬ 
tries, and the events that happened there. And though 
he but faintly took in all this, still he did take it in, a 
little, and worried his young brain about it, and per¬ 
plexed his nurse with questions, to which she returned 
sharp and mysterious answers, which only set him think¬ 
ing the more. 

He had plenty of time for thinking. After his last 
journey in the travelling-cloak, the journey which had 
given him so much pain, his desire to see the world had 
somehow faded away. He contented himself with read¬ 
ing his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and 
listening to his beloved little lark, which had come home 
with him that day, and never left him again. 

True, it kept out of the way and though his nurse 
sometimes dimly heard it, and said, “What is that horrid 
noise outside? ’ she never got the faintest chance of mak¬ 
ing it into a lark pie. Prince Dolor had his pet all to him- 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


85 


self, and though he seldom saw it, he knew it was near 
him, and he caught continually, at odd hours of the day, 
and even in the night, fragments of its delicious song. 

All during the winter—so far as there ever was any 
difference between summer and winter in Hopeless 
Tower—the little bird cheered and amused him. He 
scarcely needed anything more—not even his travelling- 
cloak, which lay bundled up unnoticed in a corner, tied up 
in its innumerable knots. Nor did his godmother come 
near him. It seemed as if she had given these treasures 
and left him alone—to use them, or lose them, apply them, 
or misapply them, according to his own choice. That is 
all we can do with children, when they grow into big 
children, old enough to distinguish between right and 
wrong, and too old to be forced to do either. 

Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall— 
alas! he never could be that, with his poor little shrunken 
legs; which were of no use, only an encumbrance. But 
he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders, 
and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself 
about almost like a monkey. As if in compensation for 
his useless lower limbs, nature had given to these extra 
strength and activity. His face, too, was very handsome; 
thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of 
his childhood—his mother’s own face. 

How his mother would have liked to look at him! 
Perhaps she did—who knows! 

The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn 
almost anything he chose—and he did choose, which was 




86 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 



more than half the battle. He never gave up his lessons 
till he had learnt them all—never thought it a punish¬ 
ment that he had to work at them, and that they cost 
him a deal of trouble sometimes. 

“But,” thought he, “men work, and it must be so 
grand to be a man;—a prince too; and I fancy princes 
work harder than anybody—except kings. The princes 
I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder”—the 
boy was always wondering—“Nurse”—and one day he 
startled her with a sudden question—“tell me—shall I 
ever be a king”? 

The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So 
long a time had passed by since her crime—if it was a 
crime—and her sentence, that she now seldom thought 
of either. Even her punishment—to be shut up for life 
in Hopeless Tower—she had gradually got used to. Used 
also to the little lame prince, her charge—whom at first 
she had hated, though she carefully did everything to 
keep him alive, since upon him her own life hung. But 
latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


87 


almost loved him—at least, enough to be sorry for him— 
an innocent child, imprisoned here till he grew into an 
old man—and became a dull, worn-out creature like her¬ 
self. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more sorry for 
him than even for herself and then, seeing she looked a 
less miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from 
her as usual. 

He did not now. “Nurse—dear nurse,” said he, “I 
don’t mean to vex you, but tell me—what is a king? shall 
I ever be one?” 

When she began to think less of herself and more of 
the child, the woman’s courage increased. The idea 
came to her—what harm would it be, even if he did know 
his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it—for there 
had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolu¬ 
tions, and restorations in Nomansland, as in most other 
countries. Something might happen—who could tell? 
Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would even yet 
be set upon those pretty, fair curls—which she began to 
think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary 
coronet upon them. 

She sat down, considering whether her oath, never 
to “say a word” to Prince Dolor about himself, would be 
broken, if she were to take a pencil and write what was 
to be told. A mere quibble—a mean, miserable quibble. 
But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied 
than scorned. 

After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she 
put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince’s slate— 




88 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


with the sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing 
in a minute—she wrote— 

“You are a king.” 

Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then 
flushed all over; his eyes glistened; he held himself erect. 
Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be a 
king. 

“Hush!” said his nurse, as he was beginning to speak. 
And then, terribly frightened all the while—people who 
have done wrong always are frightened—she wrote down 
in a few hurried sentences his history. How his parents 
had died—his uncle had usurped his throne, and sent him 
to end his days in this lonely tower. 

“I, too,” added she, bursting into tears. “Unless, in¬ 
deed, you could get out into the world, and fight for your 
rights like a man. And fight for me also, my prince, that 
I may not die in this desolate place.” 

“Poor old nurse!” said the boy compassionately. For 
somehow, boy as he was, when he heard he was born to 
be a king, he felt like a man—like a king—who could af¬ 
ford to be tender because he was strong. 

He scarcely slept that night, and even though he 
heard his little lark singing in the sunrise, he barely 
listened to it. Things more serious and important had 
taken possession of his mind. 

“Suppose,” thought he, “I were to do as she says, 
and go out into the world, no matter how it hurts me— 
the world of people, active people, as active as that boy 
I saw. They might only laugh at me—poor helpless 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


89 


creature that I am; but still I might show them I could 
do something. At any rate, I might go and see if there 
was anything for me to do. Godmother, help me!” 

It was so long since he had asked her help, that he was 
hardly surprised when he got no answer—only the little 
lark outside the window sang louder and louder, and the 
sun rose, flooding the room with light. 

Prince Dolor sprang out of bed, and began dressing 
himself which was hard work, for he was not used to it— 
he had always been accustomed to depend upon his nurse 
for everything. 

“But I must now learn to be independent,” thought 
he. “Fancy a king being dressed like a baby!” 

So he did the best he could—awkwardly but cheerily 
—and then he leaped to the corner where lay his travel¬ 
ling-cloak, untied it as before, and watched it unrolling 
itself—which it did rapidly, with a hearty good-will, as 
if quite tired of idleness. So was Prince Dolor—or felt 
as if he was. He jumped into the middle of it, said his 
charm, and was out through the skylight immediately. 

“Good-bye, pretty lark!” he shouted, as he passed it 
on the wing, still warbling its carol to the newly-risen 
sun. “You have been my pleasure, my delight; now I 
must go and work. Sing to old nurse till I come back 
again. Perhaps she’ll hear you—perhaps she won’t— 
but it will do her good all the same. Good-bye!” 

But, as the cloak hung irresolute in air, he suddenly 
remembered that he had not determined where to go— 
indeed, he did not know, and there was nobody to tell 
him. 




90 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


“Godmother,” he cried, in much perplexity, “you 
know what I want—at least, I hope you do, for I hardly 
do myself—take me where I ought to go; show me what¬ 
ever I ought to see—never mind what I like to see,” as a 
sudden idea came into his mind that he might see many 
painful and disagreeable things. But this journey was 
not for pleasure—as before. He was not a baby now, 
to do nothing but play—big boys do not always play. 
Nor men neither—they work. Thus much Prince Dolor 
knew—though very little more. And as the cloak started 
off, travelling faster than he had ever known it to do— 
through sky-land and cloud-land, over freezing moun¬ 
tain-tops, and desolate stretches of forest, and smiling 
cultivated plains, and great lakes that seemed to him al¬ 
most as shoreless as the sea—he was often rather fright¬ 
ened. But he crouched down, silent and quiet; what was 
the use of making a fuss? and, wrapping himself up in 
his bear-skin, waited for what was to happen. 

After some time he heard a murmur in the distance, 
increasing more and more till it grew like the hum of a 
gigantic hive of bees. And, stretching his chin over the 
rim of his cloak, Prince Dolor saw—far, far below him, 
yet with his gold spectacles and silver ears on, he could 
distinctly hear and see—What? 

Most of us have sometime or other visited a great 
metropolis—have wandered through its network of 
streets—lost ourselves in its crowds of people- -looked up 
at its tall rows of houses, its grand public buildings, 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


91 


churches and squares. Also, perhaps, we have peeped 
into its miserable little back alleys, where dirty chil¬ 
dren play in gutters all day and half the night—or where 
men reel tipsy and women fight—where even young boys 
go about picking pockets, with nobody to tell them it is 
wrong, except the policeman; and he simply takes them 
off to prison. And all this wretchedness is close behind 
the grandeur—like the two sides of the leaf of a book. 

An awful sight is a large city, seen anyhow, from 
anywhere. But, suppose you were to see it from the up¬ 
per air; where, with your eyes and ears open, you could 
take in everything at once? What would it look like? 
How would you feel about it? I hardly know myself. 
Do you? 

Prince Dolor had need to be a king—that is, a boy 
with a kingly nature—to be able to stand such a sight 
without being utterly overcome. But he was very much 
bewildered—as bewildered as a blind person who is sud¬ 
denly made to see. 

He gazed down on the city below him, and then put 
his hand over his eyes. 

“I can’t bear to look at it, it is so beautiful—so dread¬ 
ful. And I don’t understand it—not one bit. There is 
nobody to tell me about it. I wish I had somebody to 
speak to.” 

“Do you? Then pray speak to me. I was always 
considered good at conversation.” 

The voice that squeaked out this reply was an excel¬ 
lent imitation of the human one, though it came only 




92 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


from a bird. No lark this time, however, but a great 
black and white creature that flew into the cloak, and be¬ 
gan walking round and round on the edge of it with a 
dignified stride, one foot before the other, like any un¬ 
feathered biped you could name. 

“I haven’t the honour of your acquaintance, sir,” said 
the boy politely. 

“Ma’am, if you please. I am a mother bird, and my 
name is Mag, and I shall be happy to tell you everything 
you want to know. For I know a great deal; and I en¬ 
joy talking. My family is of great antiquity; we have 
built in this palace for hundreds—that is to say, dozens 
of years. I am intimately acquainted with the King, the 
Queen, and the little princes and princesses—also the 
maids of honour, and all the inhabitants of the city. I 
talk a good deal but I always talk sense, and I dare say 
I should be exceedingly useful to a poor little ignorant 
boy like you.” 

“I am a prince,” said the other gently. 

“All right. And I am a magpie. You will find me a 
most respectable bird.” 

“I have no doubt of it,” was the polite answer— 
though he thought in his own mind that Mag must have 
a very good opinion of herself. But she was a lady and 
a stranger, so, of course, he was civil to her. 

She settled herself at his elbow, and began to chatter 
away, pointing out with one skinny claw while she bal¬ 
anced herself on the other, every object of interest,— 
evidently believing, as no doubt all its inhabitants did, 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


93 


that there was no capital in the world like the great 
metropolis of Nomansland. 

I have not seen it, and therefore cannot describe it, 
so we will just take it upon trust, and suppose it to be, 
like every other fine city, the finest city that ever was 
built. “Mag” said so—and of course she knew. Never¬ 
theless, there were a few things in it which surprised 
Prince Dolor—and, as he had said, he could not under¬ 
stand them at all. One half the people seemed so happy 
and busy—hurrying up and down the full streets, or 
driving lazily along the parks in their grand carriages, 
while the other half were so wretched and miserable. 

“Can’t the world be made a little more level? I would 
try to do it if I were the king.” “But you’re not the king: 
only a little goose of a boy,” returned the magpie loftily. 
“And I’m here not to explain things, only to show them. 
Shall I show you the royal palace?” 

It was a very magnificent palace. It had terraces and 
gardens, battlements and towers. It extended over acres 
of ground, and had in it rooms enough to accommodate 
half the city. Its windows looked in all directions, but 
none of them had any particular view—except a small 
one, high up towards the roof, which looked onto the 
Beautiful Mountains. But since the Queen died there, it 
had been closed, boarded up, indeed, the magpie said. It 
was so little and inconvenient, that nobody cared to live 
in it. Besides, the lower apartments, which had no view, 
were magnificent—worthy of being inhabited by his 
Majesty the King. 





94 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


“I should like to see the King,” said Prince Dolor. 

But what followed was so important that I must take 
another chapter to tell it in. 









HAT, I wonder, would be most people’s idea of 
a king? 

What was Prince Dolor’s? 

Perhaps a very splendid personage, with a 
crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand, sitting on a 
throne, and judging the people. Always doing right, and 
never wrong—“The king can do no wrong” was a law 
laid down in olden times. Never cross, or tired, or sick, 
or suffering; perfectly handsome and well-dressed, calm 

95 










96 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


and good-tempered, ready to see and hear everybody, and 
discourteous to nobody; all things always going well with 
him, and nothing unpleasant ever happening. 

This, probably, was what Prince Dolor expected to 
see. And what did he see? But I must tell you how he 
saw it. 

“Ah,” said the magpie, “no levee to-day. The King 
is ill, though his Majesty does not wish it to be generally 
known—it would be so very inconvenient. He can’t see 
you, but perhaps you might like to go and take a look at 
him, in a way I often do? It is so very amusing.” 

Amusing, indeed! 

The Prince was just now too much excited to talk 
much. Was he not going to see the King his uncle, who 
had succeeded his father, and dethroned himself; had 
stepped into all the pleasant things that he, Prince Dolor, 
ought to have had, and shut him up in a desolate tower? 
What was he like, this great, bad, clever man? Had he 
got all the things he wanted, which another ought to have 
had? And did he enjoy them? 

“Nobody knows,” answered the magpie, just as if she 
had been sitting inside the Prince’s heart, instead of on 
the top of his shoulder. “He is a king, and that’s enough. 
For the rest nobody knows.” 

As she spoke Mag flew down onto the palace roof, 
where the cloak had rested, settling down between the 
great stacks of chimneys as comfortably as if on the 
ground. She pecked at the tiles with her beak—truly she 
was a wonderful bird—and immediately a little hole 







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98 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


The Prince gazed eagerly down, into a large room, the 
largest room he had ever beheld, with furniture and 
hangings grander than anything he could have ever 
imagined. A stray sunbeam, coming through a crevice 
of the darkened windows, struck across the carpet, and 
it was the loveliest carpet ever woven—just like a bed of 
flowers to walk over only nobody walked over it; the room 
being perfectly empty and silent. 

“Where is the King?” asked the puzzled boy. 

“There,” said Mag, pointing with one wrinkled claw 
to a magnificent bed, large enough to contain six people. 
In the centre of it, just visible under the silken counter¬ 
pane—quite straight and still—with its head on the lace 
pillow—lay a small figure, something like waxwork, fast 
asleep—very fast asleep! There were a quantity of 
sparkling rings on the tiny yellow hands, that were 
curled a little, helplessly, like a baby’s, outside the cover¬ 
let; the eyes were shut, the nose looked sharp and thin, 
and the long grey beard hid the mouth, and lay over the 
breast. A sight not ugly, nor frightening, only solemn 
and quiet. And so very silent—two little flies buzzing 
about the curtains of the bed, being the only audible 
sound. 

“Is that the King?” whispered Prince Dolor. 

“Yes,” replied the bird. 

He had been angry—furiously angry; ever since he 
knew how his uncle had taken the crown, and sent him, 
a poor little helpless child, to be shut up for life, just as 
if he had been dead. Many times the boy had felt as if 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, 
strong, wicked man. 

Why, you might as well have struck a baby! How 
helpless he lay! with his eyes shut, and his idle hands 
folded: they had no more work to do, bad or good. 

“What is the matter with him?” asked the Prince 
again. 

“He is dead,” said the Magpie with a croak. 

No, there was not the least use in being angry with 
him now. On the contrary, the Prince felt almost sorry 
for him, except that he looked so peaceful, with all his 
cares at rest. And this was being dead? So, even kings 
died? 

“Well, well, he hadn’t an easy life, folk say, for all 
his grandeur. Perhaps he is glad it is over. Good-bye, 
your Majesty.” 

With another cheerful tap of her beak, Mistress Mag 
shut down the little door in the tiles, and Prince Dolor’s 
first and last sight of his uncle was ended. 

He sat in the centre of his travelling-cloak silent and 
thoughtful. 

“What shall we do now?” said the Magpie. “There’s 
nothing much more to be done with his Majesty, except 
a fine funeral, which I shall certainly go and see. All the 
world will. He interested the world exceedingly when 
he was alive, and he ought to do it now he’s dead—just 
once more. And since he can’t hear me. I may as well 
say that, on the whole, his Majesty is much better dead 
than alive—if we can only get somebody in his place. 





100 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


There’ll be such a row in the city presently. Suppose we 
float up again, and see it all. At a safe distance, though. 
It will be such fun.” 

“What will be fun?” 

“A revolution.” 

Whether anybody except a magpie would have called 
it “fun,” I don’t know, but it certainly was a remarkable 
scene. 

As soon as the Cathedral bell began to toll, and the 
minute guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it 
was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stop¬ 
ping at street corners to talk together. The murmur 
now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. 
When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught 
the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed 
to him as if the whole city had gone mad together. 

“Long live the King!” “The King is dead—down 
with the King!” “Down with the crown, and the King 
too!” “Hurrah for the Republic!” “Hurrah for no Gov¬ 
ernment at all.” 

Such were the shouts which travelled up to the travel¬ 
ling-cloak. And then began—oh, what a scene! 

When you children are grown men and women—or 
before—you will hear and read in books about what are 
called revolutions—earnestly I trust that neither I nor 
you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may 
happen again, in other countries beside Nomansland, 
when wicked kings have helped to make their people 
wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung 






THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


101 


rulers equally bad or, without either of these causes, 
when a restless country has fancied any change better 
than no change at all. 

For me, I don’t like changes, unless pretty sure that 
they are for good. And how good can come out of abso¬ 
lute evil—the horrible evil that went on this night under 
Prince Dolor’s very eyes—soldiers shooting people down 
by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads 
dropping off—houses burnt, and women and children 
murdered—this is more than I can understand. 

But all these things you will find in history, my chil¬ 
dren, and must by-and-by judge for yourselves the right 
and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge. 

Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast 
after one another that they quite confused his faculties. 

“Oh, let me go home,” he cried at last, stopping his 
ears and shutting his eyes; “only let me go home!” for 
even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness 
and silence absolute paradise after all this. 

“Good-bye, then,” said the magpie, flapping her 
wings. She had been chatting incessantly all day and 
all night, for it was actually thus long that Prince Dolor 
had been hovering over the city, neither eating nor sleep¬ 
ing, with all these terrible things happening under his 
very eyes. “You’ve had enough, I suppose, of seeing the 
world?” 

“Oh, I have—I have!” cried the Prince with a 
shudder. 

“That is, till next time. All right, your Royal High- 




102 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


ness. You don’t know me, but I know you. We may meet 
again sometime.” 

She looked at him with her clear piercing eyes, sharp 
enough to see through everything, and it seemed as if 
they changed from bird’s eyes to human eyes, the very 
eyes of his godmother, whom he had not seen for ever 
so long. But the minute afterwards she became only a 
bird, and with a screech and a chatter spread her wings 
and flew away. 

Prince Dolor fell into a kind of swoon, of utter 
misery, bewilderment, and exhaustion, and when he 
awoke he found himself in his own room—alone and quiet 
—with the dawn just breaking, and the long rim of yel¬ 
low light in the horizon glimmering through the window 
panes. 






HEN Prince Dolor sat up in bed, trying to re¬ 
member where he was, whither he had been, 
and what he had seen the day before, he per¬ 
ceived that his room was empty. 

Generally, his nurse rather worried him by breaking 
his slumbers, coming in and “setting things to rights,” 
as she called it. Now, the dust lay thick upon chairs and 
tables; there was no harsh voice heard to scold him for 


103 









104 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


not getting up immediately—which, I am sorry to say, 
this boy did not always do. For he so enjoyed lying still, 
and thinking lazily, about everything or nothing, that, if 
he had not tried hard against it, he would certainly have 
become like those celebrated 
“Two little men 

Who lay in their bed till the clock struck ten.” 

It was striking ten now, and still no nurse was to be seen. 
He was rather relieved at first, for he felt so tired; and 
besides when he stretched out his arm, he found to his 
dismay that he had gone to bed in his clothes. 

Very uncomfortable he felt, of course; and just a lit¬ 
tle frightened. Especially when he began to call and call 
again, but nobody answered. Often he used to think how 
nice it would be to get rid of his nurse and live in this 
tower all by himself—like a sort of monarch, able to do 
everything he liked, and leave undone all that he did not 
want to do; but now that this seemed really to have hap¬ 
pened, he did not like it at all. 

“Nurse—dear nurse—please come back!” he called 
out. “Come back, and I will be the best boy in all the 
land.” 

And when she did not come back, and nothing but 
silence answered his lamentable call, he very nearly be¬ 
gan to cry. 

“This won’t do,” he said at last, dashing the tears 
from his eyes. “It’s just like a baby, and I’m a big boy— 
shall be a man some day. What has happened, I won¬ 
der? I’ll go and see.” 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


105 


He sprang out of bed—not to his feet, alas! but to 
his poor little weak knees, and crawled on them from 
room to room. All the four chambers were deserted— 
not forlorn or untidy, for everything seemed to have been 
done for his comfort—the breakfast and dinner-things 
were laid, the food spread in order. He might live “like 
a prince,” as the proverb is, for several days. But the 
place was entirely forsaken—there was evidently not a 
creature but himself in the solitary tower. 

A great fear came upon the poor boy. Lonely as his 
life had been, he had never known what it was to be ab¬ 
solutely alone. A kind of despair seized him—no violent 
anger or terror, but a sort of patient desolation. 

“What in the world am I to do?” thought he, and sat 
down in the middle of the floor, half inclined to believe 
that it would be better to give up entirely, lay himself 
down and die. 

This feeling, however, did not last long, for he was 
young and strong, and I said before, by nature a very 
courageous boy. There came into his head somehow or 
other, a proverb that his nurse had taught him—the 
people of Nomansland were very fond of proverbs:— 

“For every evil under the sun 
There is a remedy, or there’s none; 

If there is one, try to find it— 

If there isn’t, never mind it.” 

“I wonder—is there a remedy now, and could I find 
it?” cried the Prince, jumping up and looking out of the 
window. 




106 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


No help there. He only saw the broad bleak sunshiny 
plain—that is, at first. But, by-and-by, in the circle of 
mud that surrounded the base of the tower he perceived 
distinctly the marks of a horse’s feet, and just in the spot 
where the deaf-mute was accustomed to tie up his great 
black charger, while he himself ascended, there lay the 
remains of a bundle of hay and a feed of corn. 

“Yes, that’s it. He has come and gone, taking nurse 
away with him. Poor nurse! how glad she would be 
to go!” 

That was Prince Dolor’s first thought. His second— 
wasn’t it natural?—was a passionate indignation at her 
cruelty—at the cruelty of all world towards him—a poor 
little helpless boy. Then he determined—forsaken as he 
was—to try and hold on to the last, and not to die as long 
as he could possibly help it. 

Anyhow, it would be easier to die here than out in the 
world, among the terrible doings which he had just be¬ 
held. From the midst of which, it suddenly struck him, 
the deaf-mute had come—contrived somehow to make the 
nurse understand that the king was dead, and she need 
have no fear in going back to the capital, where there 
was a grand revolution, and everything turned upside 
down. So, of course she had gone. 

“I hope she’ll enjoy it, miserable woman—if they 
don’t cut off her head too.” 

And then a kind of remorse smote him for feeling so 
bitterly towards her, after all the years she had taken 
care of him—grudgingly, perhaps, and coldly; still, she 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


107 


had taken care of him, and that even to the last: for, as 
I have said, all his four rooms were as tidy as possible, 
and his meals laid out, that he might have no more trouble 
than could be helped. 

“Possibly she did not mean to be cruel. I won’t judge 
her,” said he. And afterwards he was very glad that he 
had so determined. 

For the second time he tried to dress himself, and 
then to do everything he could for himself—even to 
sweeping up the hearth and putting on more coals. “It’s 
a funny thing for a prince to have to do,” said he laugh¬ 
ing. “But my godmother once said princes need never 
mind doing anything.” 

And then he thought a little of his godmother. Not 
of summoning her, or asking her to help him—she had 
evidently left him to help himself, and he was determined 
to try his best to do it, being a very proud and independ¬ 
ent boy—but he remembered her, tenderly and regret¬ 
fully, as if even she had been a little hard upon him— 
poor, forlorn boy that he was! But he seemed to have 
seen and learned so much within the last few days, that 
he scarcely felt like a boy, but a man—until he went to 
bed at night. 

When I was a child, I used often to think how nice 
it would be to live in a little house all by my own self— 
a house built high up in a tree, or far away in a forest, or 
half way up a hillside,—so deliciously alone and inde¬ 
pendent. Not a lesson to learn—but no! I always liked 
learning my lessons. Anyhow, to choose the lessons I 





108 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


liked best, to have as many books to read and dolls to 
play with as ever I wanted: above all, to be free and at 
rest, with nobody to teaze, or trouble, or scold me, would 
be charming. For I was a lonely little thing, who liked 
quietness—as many children do; which other children, 
and sometimes grown-up people even, cannot always un¬ 
derstand. And so I can understand Prince Dolor. 

After his first despair, he was not merely comfort¬ 
able, but actually happy in solitude, doing everything for 
himself, and enjoying everything by himself—until bed¬ 
time. 

Then, he did not like it at all. No more, I suppose, 
than other children would have liked my imaginary house 
in a tree, when they had had sufficient of their own 
company. 

But the prince had to bear it—and he did bear it— 
like a prince: for fully five days. All that time he got 
up in the morning and went to bed at night, without hav¬ 
ing spoken to a creature, or, indeed, heard a single 
sound. For even his little lark was silent: and as for his 
travelling-cloak, either he never thought about it, or else 
it had been spirited away—for he made no use of it, nor 
attempted to do so. 

A very strange existence it was, those five lonely 
days. He never entirely forgot it. It threw him back 
upon himself, and into himself—in a way that all of us 
have to learn when we grow up, and are the better for 
it—but it is somewhat hard learning. 

On the sixth day, Prince Dolor had a strange com- 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


109 


posure in his look, but he was very grave, and thin, and 
white. He had nearly come to the end of his provisions— 
and what was to happen next? Get out of the tower he 
could not; the ladder the deaf-mute used was always car¬ 
ried away again and if it had not been, how could the 
poor boy have used it? And even if he slung or flung 
himself down, and by miraculous chance came alive to the 
foot of the tower how could he run away? 

Fate had been very hard to him, or so it seemed. 

He made up his mind to die. Not that he wished to 
die; on the contrary, there was a great deal that he 
wished to live to do; but if he must die, he must. 
Dying did not seem so very dreadful not even to lie quiet 
like his uncle, whom he had entirely forgiven now, and 
neither be miserable nor naughty any more, and escape 
all those horrible things that he had seen going on out¬ 
side the palace, in that awful place which was called “the 
world.” 

"It's a great deal nicer here,” said the poor little 
Prince, and collected all his pretty things round him: his 
favourite pictures, which he thought he should like to 
have near him when he died; his books and toys—no, he 
had ceased to care for toys now; he only liked them be¬ 
cause he had done so as a child. And there he sat very 
calm and patient, like a king in his castle, waiting for 
the end. 

"Still, I wish I had done something first—something 
worth doing, that somebody might remember me by,” 
thought he. “Suppose I had grown a man, and had had 





110 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


work to do, and people to care for, and was so useful and 
busy that they liked me, and perhaps even forgot I was 
lame. Then, it would have been nice to live, I think.” 

A tear came into the little fellow’s eyes, and he 
listened intently through the dead silence for some hope¬ 
ful sound. 

Was there one—was it his little lark, whom he had 
almost forgotten? No, nothing half so sweet. But it 
really was something—something which came nearer and 
nearer, so that there was no mistaking it. It was the 
sound of a trumpet, one of the great silver trumpets so 
admired in Nomansland. Not pleasant music, but very 
bold, grand, and inspiring. 

As he listened to it the boy seemed to recall many 
things which had slipped his memory for years, and to 
nerve himself for whatever might be going to happen. 

What had happened was this. 

The poor condemned woman had not been such a 
wicked woman after all. Perhaps her courage was not 
wholly disinterested, but she had done a very heroic 
thing. As soon as she heard of the death and burial of the 
King, and of the changes that were taking place in the 
country, a daring idea came into her head—to set upon 
the throne of Nomansland its rightful heir. Thereupon 
she persuaded the deaf-mute to take her away with him, 
and they galloped like the wind from city to city, spread¬ 
ing everywhere the news that Prince Dolor’s death and 
burial had been an invention concocted by his wicked 
uncle—that he was alive and well, and the noblest young 
Prince that ever was born. 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


111 


It was a bold stroke, but it succeeded. The country, 
weary, perhaps, of the late King’s harsh rule, and yet 
glad to save itself from the horrors of the last few days, 
and the still further horrors of no rule at all, and having 
no particular interest in the other young princes, jumped 
at the idea of this Prince, who was the son of their late 
good King and the beloved Queen Dolorez. 

“Hurrah for Prince Dolor! Let Prince Dolor be our 
sovereign!” rang from end to end of the kingdom. Every¬ 
body tried to remember what a dear baby he once was— 
how like his mother, who had been so sweet and kind, and 
his father, the finest looking king that ever reigned. No¬ 
body remembered his lameness—or, if they did, they 
passed it over as a matter of no consequence. They were 
determined to have him to reign over them, boy as he 
was—perhaps just because he was a boy, since in that 
case the great nobles thought they should be able to do 
as they liked with the country. 

Accordingly with a fickleness not confined to the 
people of Nomansland, no sooner was the late King laid 
in his grave than they pronounced him to have been a 
usurper; turned all his family out of the palace, and left 
it empty for the reception of the new sovereign, whom 
they went to fetch with great rejoicing; a select body of 
lords, gentlemen, and soldiers, travelling night and day 
in solemn procession through the country, until they 
reached Hopeless Tower. 

There they found the Prince, sitting calmly on the 





112 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 



floor—deadly pale indeed, for he expected a quite differ¬ 
ent end from this, and was resolved if he had to die, 
to die courageously, like a prince and a king. 

But when they hailed him as prince and king, and 
explained to him how matters stood, and went down on 
their knees before him, offering the crown (on a velvet 
cushion, with four golden tassels, each nearly as big as 
his head)—small though he was and lame, which lame¬ 
ness the courtiers pretended not to notice—there came 
such a glow into his face, such a dignity into his demean¬ 
our, that he became beautiful, king-like. 

“Yes," he said, “if you desire it, I will be your king. 
And I will do my best to make my people happy.” 

Then there arose, from inside and outside the tower, 
such a shout as never yet was heard across the lonely 
plain. 



































































. 





- « 








THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


113 


Prince Dolor shrank a little from the deafening 
sound. “How shall I be able to rule all this great people? 
You forget, my lords, that I am only a little boy still.” 

“Not so very little,” was the respectful answer. “We 
have searched in the records, and found that your Royal 
Highness—your Majesty, I mean—is precisely fifteen 
years old.” 

“Am I?” said Prince Dolor; and his first thought was 
a thoroughly childish pleasure that he should now have 
a birthday, with a whole nation to keep it. Then he re¬ 
membered that his childish days were done. He was a 
monarch now. Even his nurse, to whom, the moment he 
saw her, he had held out his hand, kissed it reverently, 
and called him ceremoniously “his Majesty the King.” 

“A king must be always a king, I suppose,” said he 
half sadly, when, the ceremonies over, he had been left 
to himself for just ten minutes, to put off his boy’s clothes, 
and be re-attired in magnificent robes, before he was con¬ 
veyed away from his tower to the Royal Palace. 

He could take nothing with him; indeed, he soon saw 
that, however politely they spoke, they would not allow 
him to take anything. If he was to be their king, he 
must give up his old life for ever. So he looked with 
tender farewell on his old books, old toys, the furniture he 
knew so well, and the familiar plain in all its levelness, 
ugly yet pleasant, simply because it was familiar. 

“It will be a new life in a new world,” said he to him¬ 
self; “but I’ll remember the old things still. And, oh! if 
before I go, I could but once see my dear old godmother.” 





114 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


While he spoke, he had laid himself down on the bed 
for a minute or two, rather tired with his grandeur, and 
confused by the noise of the trumpets which kept playing 
incessantly down below. He gazed, half sadly, up to the 
skylight, whence there came pouring a stream of sun- 
rays, with innumerable motes floating there, like a bridge 
thrown between heaven and earth. Sliding down it, as 
if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in 
grey. 

So beautiful looked she—old as she was—that Prince 
Dolor was at first quite startled by the apparition. Then 
he held out his arms in eager delight. 

“0, godmother, you have not forsaken me!” 

“Not at all, my son. You may not have seen me, but 
I have seen you, many a time.” 

“How?” 

“0, never mind. I can turn into anything I please, 
you know. And I have been a bear-skin rug, and a 
crystal goblet—and sometimes I have changed from in¬ 
animate to animate nature, put on feathers, and made 
myself very comfortable as a bird.” 

“Ha!” laughed the Prince, a new light breaking in 
upon him, as he caught the infection of her tone, lively 
and mischievous. “Ha, ha! a lark, for instance?” 

“Or a magpie,” answered she, with a capital imitation 
of Mistress Mag’s croaky voice. “Do you suppose I am 
always sentimental and never funny?—If anything 
makes you happy, gay or grave, don’t you think it is more 
than likely to come through your old godmother?” 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


115 



“I believe that,” said the boy tenderly, holding out his 
arms. They clasped one another in a close embrace. 

Suddenly Prince Dolor looked very anxious. “You 
will not leave me now that I am a King? Otherwise, I 
had rather not be a king at all. Promise never to forsake 
me?” 

The little old woman laughed gaily. “Forsake you? 
that is impossible. But it is just possible you may for¬ 
sake me. Not probable though. Your mother never did, 
and she was a queen. The sweetest queen in all the world 
was the lady Dolorez.” 

“Tell me about her,” said the boy eagerly. “As I get 
older I think I can understand more. Do tell me.” 

“Not now. You couldn’t hear me for the trumpets 
and the shouting. But when you are come to the palace, 
ask for a long-closed upper room, which looks out upon 




116 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


the Beautiful Mountains; open it and take it for your 
own. Whenever you go there, you will always find me, 
and we will talk together about all sorts of things.” 

“And about my mother?” 

The little old woman nodded—and kept nodding and 
smiling to herself many times, as the boy repeated over 
and over again the sweet words he had never known or 
understood—“my mother—my mother.” 

“Now I must go,” said she, as the trumpets blared 
louder and louder, and the shouts of the people showed 
that they would not endure any delay. “Good-bye, Good¬ 
bye! Open the window and out I fly.” 

Prince Dolor repeated gaily the musical rhyme—but 
all the while tried to hold his godmother fast. 

Vain, vain!—for the moment that a knocking was 
heard at his door, the sun went behind a cloud, the bright 
stream of dancing motes vanished, and the little old 
woman with them—he knew not where. 

So Prince Dolor quitted his tower—which he had 
entered so mournfully and ignominiously, as a little help¬ 
less baby carried in the deaf-mute’s arms—quitted it as 
the great King of Nomansland. 

The only thing he took away with him was something 
so insignificant, that none of the lords, gentlemen, and 
soldiers who escorted him with such triumphant splen¬ 
dour, could possibly notice it—a tiny bundle, which he 
had found lying on the floor just where the bridge of sun¬ 
beams had rested. At once he had pounced upon it, and 
thrust it secretly into his bosom, where it dwindled into 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


117 


such small proportions, that it might have been taken for 
a mere chest-comforter—a bit of flannel—or an old 
pocket-handkerchief! 

It was his travelling-cloak. 







ID Prince Dolor become a great king? Was he, 
though little more than a boy, “the father of 
his people,” as all kings ought to be? Did his 
reign last long—long and happy?—and what were the 
principal events of it, as chronicled in the history of 
Nomansland? 

Why, if I were to answer all these questions, I should 
have to write another book. And I’m tired, children, 
118 


















THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


119 


tired—as grown-up people sometimes are; though not al¬ 
ways with play. (Besides, I have a small person belong¬ 
ing to me, who, though she likes extremely to listen to the 
word-of-mouth story of this book, grumbles much at the 
writing of it, and has run about the house clapping her 
hands with joy when mamma told her that it was nearly 
finished. But that is neither here nor there.) 

I have related, as well as I could, the history of Prince 
Dolor, but with the history of Nomansland I am as yet 
unacquainted. If anybody knows it, perhaps he or she 
will kindly write it all down in another book. But mine 
is done. 

However, of this I am sure, that Prince Dolor made 
an excellent king. Nobody ever does anything less well, 
not even the commonest duty of common daily life, for 
having such a godmother as the little old woman clothed 
in grey, whose name is—well, I leave you to guess. Nor, 
I think, is anybody less good, less capable of both work 
and enjoyment in after life, for having been a little un¬ 
happy in his youth, as the Prince had been. 

I cannot take upon myself to say that he was always 
happy now—who is?—or that he had no cares; just show 
me the person who is quite free from them! But, when¬ 
ever people worried and bothered him—as they did some¬ 
times, with state etiquette, state squabbles, and the like, 
setting up themselves and pulling down their neighbours 
—he would take refuge in that upper room which looked 
out on the Beautiful Mountains and, laying his head on 
his godmother’s shoulder, become calmed and at rest. 





120 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


Also, she helped him out of any difficulty which now 
and then occurred—for there never was such a wise old 
woman. When the people of Nomansland raised the 
alarm—as sometimes they did—for what people can ex¬ 
ist without a little fault-finding?—and began to cry out, 
“Unhappy is the nation whose king is a child,” she would 
say to him gently, “You are a child. Accept the fact. Be 
humble—be teachable. Lean upon the wisdom of others 
till you have gained your own.” 

He did so. He learned how to take advice before at¬ 
tempting to give it, to obey before he could righteously 
command. He assembled round him all the good and wise 
of his kingdom—laid all its affairs before them, and was 
guided by their opinions until he had maturely formed 
his own. 

This he did, sooner than anybody would have imag¬ 
ined, who did not know of his godmother and his travel¬ 
ling-cloak—two secret blessings, which, though many 
guessed at, nobody quite understood. Nor did they under¬ 
stand why he loved so the little upper room, except that 
it had been his mother’s room, from the window of which, 
as people remembered now, she had used to sit for hours 
watching the Beautiful Mountains. 

Out of that window he used to fly—not very often; as 
he grew older, the labours of state prevented the fre¬ 
quent use of his travelling-cloak; still he did use it some¬ 
times. Only now it was less for his own pleasure and 
amusement than to see something, or investigate some¬ 
thing, for the good of the country. But he prized his 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


121 


godmother’s gift as dearly as ever. It was a comfort to 
him in all his vexations; an enhancement of all his joys. 
It made him almost forget his lameness—which was 
never cured. 

However, the cruel things which had been once fore¬ 
boded of him did not happen. His misfortune was not 
such a heavy one after all. It proved to be much less in¬ 
convenience, even to himself, than had been feared. A 
council of eminent surgeons and mechanicians invented 
for him a wonderful pair of crutches, with the help of 
which, though he never walked easily or gracefully, he 
did manage to walk, so as to be quite independent. And 
such was the love his people bore him that they never 
heard the sound of his crutch on the marble palace-floors 
without a leap of the heart, for they knew that good was 
coming to them whenever he approached them. 

Thus, though he never walked in processions, never 
reviewed his troops mounted on a magnificent charger, 
nor did any of the things which make a show monarch so 
much appreciated, he was able for all the duties and a 
great many of the pleasures of his rank. When he held 
his levees, not standing, but seated on a throne, ingeni¬ 
ously contrived to hide his infirmity, the people thronged 
to greet him; when he drove out through the city streets, 
shouts followed him wherever he went—every contenance 
brightened as he passed, and his own, perhaps, was the 
brightest of all. 

First, because, accepting his affliction as inevitable, 
he took it patiently; second, because, being a brave man, 





122 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


he bore it bravely; trying to forget himself, and live out 
of himself, and in and for other people. Therefore other 
people grew to love him so well, that I think hundreds of 
his subjects might have been found who were almost 
ready to die for their poor lame King. 

He never gave them a queen. When they implored 
him to choose one, he replied that his country was his 
bride, and he desired no other. But, perhaps, the real 
reason was that he shrank from any change; and that 
no wife in all the world would have been found so per¬ 
fect, so lovable, so tender to him in all his weaknesses, as 
his beautiful old godmother. 

His four-and-twenty other godfathers and god¬ 
mothers, or as many of them as were still alive, crowded 
round him as soon as he ascended the throne. He was 
very civil to them all, but adopted none of the names 
they had given him, keeping to the one by which he had 
been always known, though it had now almost lost its 
meaning; for King Dolor was one of the happiest and 
cheerfullest men alive. 

He did a good many things, however, unlike most men 
and most kings, which a little astonished his subjects. 
First, he pardoned the condemned woman who had been 
his nurse, and ordained that from henceforward there 
should be no such thing as the punishment of death in 
Nomansland. All capital criminals were to be sent to 
perpetual imprisonment in Hopeless Tower, and the plain 
round about it, where they could do no harm to anybody, 
and might in time do a little good, as the woman had 
done. 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


123 



Another surprise he shortly afterwards gave the na¬ 
tion. He recalled his uncle’s family, who had fled away 
in terror to another country, and restored them to all 
their honours in their own. By-and-by he chose the eldest 
son of his eldest cousin (who had been dead a year), and 
had him educated in the royal palace, as the heir to the 
throne. This little prince was a quiet, unobtrusive boy, 
so that everybody wondered at the King’s choosing him, 
when there were so many more; but as he grew into a 
fine young fellow, good and brave, they agreed that the 
King judged more wisely than they. 

“Not a lame prince neither,” his Majesty observed 
one day, watching him affectionately; for he was the best 





124 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


runner, the highest leaper, the keenest and most active 
sportsman in the country. “One cannot make oneself, but 
one can sometimes help a little in the making of some¬ 
body else. It is well.” 

This was said, not to any of his great lords and ladies, 
but to a good old woman—his first homely nurse—whom 
he had sought for far and wide, and at last found, in her 
cottage among the Beautiful Mountains. He sent for her 
to visit him once a year, and treated her with great hon¬ 
our until she died. He was equally kind, though some¬ 
what less tender, to his other nurse, who, after receiving 
her pardon, returned to her native town and grew into a 
great lady, and I hope a good one. But as she was so 
grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not 
show. 

Thus King Dolor’s reign passed, year after year, long 
and prosperous. Whether he was happy—“as happy as 
a king”—is a question no human being can decide. But 
I think he was, because he had the power of making 
everybody about him happy, and did it too; also because 
he was his godmother’s godson, and could shut himself 
up with her whenever he liked, in that quiet little room, 
in view of the Beautiful Mountains, which nobody else 
ever saw or cared to see. They were too far off, and the 
city lay so low. But there they were, all the time. No 
change ever came to them; and I think, at any day 
throughout his long reign, the King would sooner have 
lost his crown than have lost sight of the Beautiful Moun¬ 
tains. 




THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


125 


In course of time, when the little prince, his cousin, 
was grown into a tall young man, capable of all the du¬ 
ties of a man, his Majesty did one of the most extraor¬ 
dinary acts ever known in a sovereign beloved by his 
people and prosperous in his reign. He announced that 
he wished to invest his heir with the royal purple—at any 
rate, for a time—while he himself went away on a dis¬ 
tant journey, whither he had long desired to go. 

Everybody marvelled, but nobody opposed him. Who 
could oppose the good King, who was not a young king 
now? And, besides, the nation had a great admiration 
for the young Regent—and, possibly, a lurking pleasure 
in change. 

So there was fixed a day, when all the people whom 
it would hold, assembled in the great square of the capi¬ 
tal, to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new 
duties, and undertaking his new vows. He was a very 
fine young fellow; tall and straight as a poplar tree, with 
a frank handsome face—a great deal handsomer than the 
King, some people said, but others thought differently. 
However, as his Majesty sat on his throne, with his grey 
hair falling from underneath his crown, and a few 
wrinkles showing in spite of his smile, there was some¬ 
thing about his countenance which made his people, even 
while they shouted, regard him with a tenderness mixed 
with awe. 

He lifted up his thin, slender hand, and there came a 
silence over the vast crowd immediately. Then he spoke, 
in his own accustomed way, using no grand words, but 




126 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


saying what he had to say in the simplest fashion, though 
with a clearness that struck their ears like the first song 
of a bird in the dusk of the morning. 

“My people, I am tired: I want to rest. I have had a 
long reign, and done much work—at least, as much as I 
was able to do. Many might have done it better than I 
—but none with a better will. Now I leave it to others. 
I am tired, very tired. Let me go home.” 

There rose a murmur—of content or discontent none 
could well tell; then it died down again, and the assembly 
listened silently once more. 

“I am not anxious about you—my people—my chil¬ 
dren,” continued the king. “You are prosperous and at 
peace. I leave you in good hands. The Prince Regent will 
be a fitter king for you than I.” 

“No, no, no!” rose the universal shout—and those 
who had sometimes found fault with him shouted louder 
than anybody. But he seemed as if he heard them not. 

“Yes, yes,” said he, as soon as the tumult had a little 
subsided; and his voice sounded firm and clear; and some 
very old people, who boasted of having seen him as a 
child, declared that his face took a sudden change, and 
grew as young and sweet as that of the little Prince 
Dolor. “Yes, I must go. It is time for me to go. Remem¬ 
ber me sometimes, my people, for I have loved you well. 
And I am going a long way, and I do not think I shall 
come back any more.” 

He drew a little bundle out of his breast pocket—a 
bundle that nobody had ever seen before. It was small 





THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


127 


and shabby-looking, and tied up with many knots, which 
untied themselves in an instant. With a joyful counte¬ 
nance, he muttered over it a few half-intelligible words. 
Then, so suddenly that even those nearest to his Majesty 
could not tell how it came about, the King was away— 
away—floating right up in the air—upon something, 
they knew not what, except that it appeared to be as safe 
and pleasant as the wings of a bird. 

And after him sprang a bird—a dear little lark, ris¬ 
ing from whence no one could say, since larks do not 
usually build their nests in the pavement of city squares. 
But there it was, a real lark, singing far over their heads, 
louder and clearer, and more joyful, as it vanished fur¬ 
ther into the blue sky. 

Shading their eyes, and straining their ears, the as¬ 
tonished people stood, until the whole vision disappeared 
like a speck in the clouds—the rosy clouds that overhung 
the Beautiful Mountains. 

Then they guessed that they should see their beloved 
king no more. Well-beloved as he was, he had always 
been somewhat of a mystery to them, and such he re¬ 
mained. But they went home, and, accepting their new 
monarch, obeyed him faithfully for his cousin’s sake. 

King Dolor was never again beheld or heard of in 
his own country. But the good he had done there lasted 
for years and years; he was long missed and deeply 
mourned—at least, so far as anybody could mourn one 
who was gone on such a happy journey. 

Whither he went, or who went with him, it is impos- 





128 


THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 


sible to say. But I myself believe that his godmother 
took him, on his travelling-cloak, to the Beautiful Moun¬ 
tains. What he did there, or where he is now, who can 
tell? I cannot. But one thing I am quite sure of, that, 
wherever he is, he is perfectly happy. 

And so, when I think of him, am I. 







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